


Consumption

by teacuptribbles



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Childbirth, Children, M/M, Murder Husbands, Sexual Content, Surrogacy, non-canon but heavily inspired by the novels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 47,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8336680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuptribbles/pseuds/teacuptribbles
Summary: All Clarice Starling can think about is finding Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, men who have been presumed dead by most.  When the search lands her in their home, will she be able to resist Hannibal's magnetism?  Or, perhaps more importantly, will he be able to resist hers?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your kind words and support. I love this fandom! This is set following my other stories "In a Princedom by the Sea" and "Waves." This will be longer and I'll try to update as frequently as I can. There are many references to Thomas Harris' novels The Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal in here, especially in regards to Clarice's story. Clarice is a central part but plenty of Hannigram is coming. Thanks for reading.

_“Let me have men about me that are fat,_  
_Sleek-headed men and such as sleep a-nights._  
_Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look._  
_He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.”  
_ _\--William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar_

_“But I don’t want to go among mad people," Alice remarked._  
_"Oh, you can’t help that," said the Cat: "we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad."_  
_"How do you know I’m mad?" said Alice._  
_"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn’t have come here.”  
_ _― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland_

 

**Prologue**

_June 2020_

Dr. Berman’s office window provided a direct view of the restaurant across the street. Clarice Starling had spent the past two months watching couples, young and old, walk in and out of its doors. Most entered appearing chipper enough. Some left the restaurant cozying up to one another, some left in tears. 

“How have you been since our last visit?”

Dr. Berman was not handsome, but he had a kind face. He was slightly overweight and had a thick black beard. Clarice had not observed him too closely in their time together.

She uncrossed her legs and continued looking outside.

“Last week you said you felt ready to find employment. How is that going?”

She folded her hands in her lap. Her nails were getting too long for her liking. She began picking at the cuticles around them. One gave way, causing a small bit of blood to pool around the edge of the nail. Instinctively she brought the finger to her mouth and sucked. Blood tasted different to her these days. It was as mundane as butter. 

For perhaps the first time, she looked directly at him.

“I think I’m ready to talk about what happened to me.”

A seasoned therapist, Dr. Berman did not raise eyebrows in surprise. He merely nodded. 

“Tell me what happened.”

***

When she pulled up to the guest house, she realized she had forgotten to check the mailbox. 

Getting the mail at the Bloom-Verger estate was no small chore. It required walking a half mile to the main gates in Maryland’s wet weather. When Clarice first arrived, she liked the activity. It allowed her to stretch her weakened legs and sink into the rhythm of moving. It was more of a burden now, but she felt obligated to continue.

The mail was usual: several thick envelopes from charities, a journal for Dr. Bloom. A thin envelope fell from the jumble. Clarice bent down to pick it up.

Her heart stopped for a moment.

The handwriting was unmistakable. There was no return address. 

She clutched the letter in one hand and held the mail in the other. Despite the mild weather, she began to sweat profusely. Ink stained her palms black. 

_Just make it inside. Don’t fall. Make it inside._

Clarice closed the door behind her and, in a frenzy, ripped the envelope open while lowering herself to the floor. A picture fell between her crossed legs. Three faces peered up at her. One had the blue eyes and auburn hair she knew must be her own, but she felt no recognition. That was a Clarice from a different timeline.

The other faces were on either side of hers. On the right was a bespectacled Will Graham. On the left, the distinct face of Hannibal Lecter.

They were smiling. The Argentine coast served as their backdrop. They were shoulder to shoulder.

She left the picture on the floor and unfolded the letter.

_Dearest Clarice,_

_A day does not pass without the thought of you. Our dinner table feels empty without your company. Sometimes I contemplate setting out a glass for you, like the Jews for Elijah._

_I read the interview you and Dr. Bloom did for Vanity Fair. It was enlightening, thank you. Dr. Bloom is an excellent psychiatrist. A bit of an opportunist, perhaps, but who among us is not?_

_Sisi is well. She is incredibly bright and challenges us at every turn. We are tired, but eternally grateful. I thought an unwarranted picture would do more harm than good. If you would like a photograph, please inform me in your response._

_And I do expect a response, of course. Craigslist missed connections for Baltimore, if you would. I will be able to figure it out from there._

_Another piece of information I would like to have: have the lambs stopped screaming? I suspect that they have for now. But, Clarice, you judge yourself with all the mercy of the dungeon scales at Threave. You will have to earn it again and again, the blessed silence. Because the plight is what drives you, and the plight will never end._

_The world is a more interesting place with you in it. I trust that, despite your scruples, you feel the same way about me._

__

_With great love,_

__

_Hannibal Lecter, M.D._

__

_P.S. I have attached our family photo from the beach, a few months before Sisi arrived. Will still bemoans that he did not think to include Dulce. We all look beautiful, don’t we?_


	2. Alive and Together

**Chapter One**

 

_October 2018_  
_Baltimore FBI Field Office_

The light above Special Agent Clarice Starling’s cubicle whined and faded intermittently. It had been on too long. She felt the same way.

She stared at her notes, the faces in front of her. Everything took on a double image. It was nine at night. She had started work around seven this morning. Her stomach growled violently. The sound faded into the back of her mind with the light’s wailing. 

WILL GRAHAM  
\--DOB 11/20/1975  
\--Jackson, MI  
\--5’10”, 148 lb

HANNIBAL LECTER, M.D.  
\--DOB 01/13/1965  
\--Visaginas, Lithuania (Lithuanian SSR)  
\--6’1”, 160 lb

Both last seen 08/29/2018. It was October now. The trail was ice; were they dead or alive? Everyone had opinions, but no one had facts. Conspiracy theories abounded on the internet. Distant relatives she had not seen since childhood sent her emails full of questions. 

Clarice’s pages and pages of notes were guesses. Guesses based on hours poured over journal articles, newspapers, police reports, and family testimony. She had read Chilton’s book several times, as sensational and stupid as it was. She had spoken to Molly Graham, once. She was not able to obtain a follow up. 

She knew Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham were alive and together. She could feel it down in every joint and knucklebone. Lecter had been at this for too long. Law enforcement had to assume he was one step ahead. Otherwise, they would never catch up.

And he would never go without Graham. Whether he was a voluntary participate or not, she could not figure out.

They would not go to Europe. All of Florence had been in a panic, the Paris newspapers were enraged at the FBI’s mishandlings. But they need not worry. Il mostro would not be returning. She was certain of that much. 

One of her pages was a list of possible locales. The prevailing theory around the watercooler was that Lecter and Graham, if alive, would be in Russia. Russia was the land of defection these days, and Lecter knew the language and culture. They would be well-hidden behind the restored Iron Curtain of Putin’s Russia. 

Clarice didn’t buy that. The entire Western world was crazy for Lecter. He made for excellent headlines and fodder. How could he manage to pass through multiple airports and board multiple planes without a single person recognizing him? Even if he could, she didn’t believe he would seek shelter in a place so close to home. He was not nostalgic enough for that.

Her list included cities that had the opera and high cuisine Lecter could not live without. She eliminated any countries that required air travel. The names MEXICO CITY, PANAMA CITY, SAN JOSE, SAO PAULO, RIO DE JANEIRO, BUENOS AIRES, LIMA, SANTIAGO were pressed between the lines of the notebook page. Thoughts like “too dangerous?” and “too expensive?” ran along the margins.

She often told herself this was insane. But she couldn’t stop.

Standing and reaching her hands to the ceiling, she stretched her body. Pops occurred between her vertebrae. Her muscles quaked with hunger. She placed the notebook in her tote bag and donned a faux leather jacket and flannel scarf. She looked back at the rows of cubicles before shutting off the light.

When she opened the door to her apartment, cold air rushed to meet her. The darkness was all-consuming. She flipped on the nearest light switch, causing her petite living space to take on a yellowish glow. It did not take much to light 500 square feet. 

In the kitchen she leaned on the counter and ate Thai leftovers from two nights ago. The speed with which she ate embarrassed her, but her body was in control of her now.

Her nighttime routine began. In sweatpants and a t-shirt from her UVA mock trial days, she brushed her teeth and swallowed a birth control pill. She began running warm water to wash her face, but grew tired of waiting and turned it off.

Sleep had never been a retreat for her. It was an irritating necessity, one that seemed especially wasteful since her dreams were never pleasant. When sleep began pulling her under, she saw strange, contorted shapes and flashes of red. Inevitably she would wake up to the screaming. It took a few minutes to realize the screaming was the same screaming that had always been.


	3. A Lead

**Chapter Two**

Section Chief Wayne Green was a large man. Many described him as intimidating. As a tall, broad-shouldered black man, Green had heard that description since he was a teenager. He often used it to his advantage. 

Clarice was young, ambitious, mildly irritating. He liked her, though. She was extremely hardworking and did not fear him. 

Once again, hers was the first face he saw in the morning. When she began on Violent Crimes, she came in every shift well-washed and made up. This morning she was bare faced, save for a layer of mascara on her lashes.

“Sir, sorry to bother you--”

Green waved her into his office, “Do you have the report on Flores?”

“Yes, sir, but--”

“Good, turn it in. We have some leads on Santos, which I’ll go over in briefing. We’re going to be working our asses off this week. Hopefully we can finally make some headway on this motherfucker.”

“Sir--”

Green raised his hand sharply. Clarice pressed her lips together.

“Starling, I know what you are going to ask. No, I have not spoken to Strowe. You’re doing good work here, and with us closing in on Santos, I can’t sacrifice you. Plus Strowe is one of the busiest men in the Bureau right now. Every Baltimore Special Agent is chomping at the bit to be on that assignment.”

She felt her heart drop into her stomach, “I understand.”

“Go get some coffee before brief.”

Clarice walked, disappointment burning her cheeks. Last month Green had told her she had a shot at joining the Lecter team. She should not have been surprised to learn this was a false hope, but she was. _Stupid stupid stupid._

Her team, all male save for her, gathered in their unit’s conference room. It was not like the grand, wooden conference rooms of Quantico. The upholstery on their chairs was coffee-stained and separating at the edges. The carpet was supposedly cleaned once a month, though Clarice often worked late and had never seen it happen.

The team shared their updates on the activities of Maryland’s MS-13. Clarice said a few things from her report on a recently interrogated drug runner, but there was a strange disconnect between saying the words and hearing them. She knew she must be talking, but she could barely hear herself. It occurred to her that she was incredibly exhausted.

Green finished the brief with housekeeping. Turn your reports in on time, this isn’t the Academy, clean up your own damn mess and remember that Nichols is retiring on the 30th. There were claps and laughs as someone, maybe Bern, called Nichols a lucky sonofabitch. They were dismissed and Clarice found herself in front of her computer, again. Bern and Ortiz were assigned to surveillance.

She had asked for surveillance. Bern was her senior by several years and did not like her much. She was “uppity.” Seniority counted for a lot in the Bureau, and she was often left behind in cubicle land.

***

That evening she met Harrison for drinks. Between work and the bar she ran home to change. She exchanged her cream button down for a pink sleeveless blouse that showcased her arms nicely. She had worked hard for those arms.

Clarice did not consider herself particularly beautiful, but she had a plain, pretty face that was easy to improve on. A highlight on the cheekbones, a bit of blush, and a nude lip liner made her look like someone who could tolerate sleep.

Harrison was 19 years her senior. They had connected while she was in the Academy and he was teaching. They were not dating; Harrison was married, if not always happily. They were friends of a sporadic sort. 

And he was on the Lecter team.

Each time Clarice prepared for one of these nights, she felt cheap. She liked Harrison well enough, but he clearly enjoyed each moment they were mistaken for a couple. He always told her she looked like a million bucks. If he were not so agonizingly close to something she wanted, she would not do this. 

“Kiddo, over here.”

He was in the back corner of the Four Seasons bar. The lighting was very dim tonight. She hated that. The whole scene made her feel worse.

Harrison was fit for his age but had started balding early in life, which he blamed on his four kids. He wore the same navy suit he always wore. Since Clarice had last seen him, he had broken down and purchased reader glasses.

“You look like a million bucks, Starling.”

“Thanks. How have you been?”

“Alright. The wife and I are going to Florida in a few weeks. Trying to improve my game before then.”

He loved golf. He could, and often did, talk about it ad nauseum.

They ordered their usuals. Him, a Manhattan. Her, a dry martini.

Clarice feigned interest in golf. She didn’t know a thing about it and always harbored a distaste for it as a waste of water, but she needed to be patient. Her mama had raised a good guest--solid manners, crossed legs, polite attentiveness.

Once the booze sank in and Harrison winded down, she leaned forward a little. “How is work going?”

“Well, it had been quiet. Pretty nice, actually. I mean, it’s never good to be wasting time and money on a cold trail, but I’m getting old, you know? I can’t be tracking these nutcases all over the fucking place anymore. But we got a lead a couple of weeks ago so things picked up quite a bit.”

“A _lead?_ ” _Okay, Clarice, take it down a notch._

“This doesn’t leave the room, alright? Margot Verger called us. She and her partner or wife or whatever they call themselves, they were on vacation in Buenos Aires and she claims she saw Hannibal Lecter in the opera house.”

Harrison waved his hand dismissively and drank. It drove Clarice crazy.

“Well…?”

“Well what?”

“Is anything getting done about it?”

“Of course we looked into it. Asked around, interviewed the employees. One of the ushers said the photograph of Lecter looked familiar but couldn’t give us anything solid. The thing is, those women have been calling us since Lecter and Graham disappeared. They want to know everything. And Verger...she’s just not stable. If she saw a guy who looked vaguely like Lecter in a dark room, of course she’s going to flip out, you know?”

Clarice’s blood boiled. Some days it was easier than others to tolerate the FBI’s misogynistic bullshit.

“She knew Lecter pretty well. Is no one taking her seriously?” 

“Jesus, Starling. There was just not much to her statement. She thought she saw him, they panicked, called, and left the country. No photos, no whereabouts, no nothing.”

“They must’ve been terrified, then.” She finished her martini.

The remainder of their conversation was clunky and forced. She declined a second martini and paid her half of the bill. She put on her nice face and thanked Harrison. On the Uber ride home, she thought.

_Buenos Aires, Buenos Aires. That’s on the list, for Christ’s sake. Can it be true? Can this be happening?_


	4. A Mistake

**Chapter Three**

_November 2018_

Clarice only remembered a series of bangs.

She knew the moment she pulled the trigger that it was a mistake. She had not gone through her checklist. She had not taken a deep breath and considered the target. She just shot.

Her panic rippled through the team. Bullets flew. Smoke clouded her vision.

When it was over, two of her fellow Special Agents had sustained injuries; significant, but not life-threatening. The drug dealers ran off. The baby, thank Christ, had not been hurt.

Clarice did not sleep a single minute. The last thing she wanted was for morning to come. 

It came to her in flashes. Santos clutching his infant daughter to his chest, raising his sight in line with her forehead. She ducked. Her ears rang as the bullet collided with the wall behind her. Then she lost the control she had fought so hard to achieve.

She arrived at the office before the sun. She did not want the rest of her unit to see her.

Green entered the office as dawn broke. He did not look surprised when he saw Clarice sitting on the floor by his door. 

“Starling, how long have you been here?”

“About an hour, sir.”

“I need a few minutes to myself.”

“Of course, sir.”

He called her name after what could have been five minutes or five days. When their eyes connected, Starling saw pity, and she hated it.

She was quiet when she sat across from him, to the point of holding her breath. It felt as if her chest was too small for her heart. It pressed up against her sternum, embarrassingly loud and scared.

Green began with a long sigh.

“I’m not going to review what went wrong, or admonish you. I’m sure you’ve already done enough of that.”

She nodded. The joints in her neck creaked when she did so.

“But you know I have to do something. There are two options here, Starling. I can have you sit at a desk until the higher ups feel comfortable giving you a chance.”

A pause. She stared at a crack in the plaster above Green’s shoulder.

“Or...it’s decided that this isn’t the right fit for you.”

As much as she usually disliked managerial terminology, Clarice was thankful for the euphemism. It was so much easier to hear than _you’ll be fired._

The silence between them was crushing. She wanted to get out. Get out before he could ask if she had anything to say.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, sir?”

“Yeah, I would. A cream and two sugars.”

The hall to the coffee machine seemed to lengthen with each step she took. Each square inch of light green carpet evolved into the ocean. Suddenly everything was unsteady, and hope was far away.

Unbeknownst to her, she had poured two cups of coffee, added cream and sugar, and returned to the chair that she was sitting in before. The sight of Green’s hand extending for the coffee startled her.

She took a sip and burned the tip of her tongue, as she knew she would. She did almost every morning.

“Sir.”

“Yes, Starling?”

Clarice set the paper cup down gently. The tan liquid moved back and forth, testing its limits against the rim.

Her fingertips brushed against the bifold containing her ID and badge. For a brief moment she stopped to reconsider, but continued to lift it out of her blazer pocket.

She placed it, splayed open, on Green’s desk.

“I’m sorry I let you down, sir. You were good to me.”

Green looked over her ID and sighed. “Starling, you don’t have to do this. Many agents have fucked up and been demoted and do fine later on.”

Clarice glanced at Green. They made long, terrible eye contact. 

“You’re having a hard time living with yourself, aren’t you?”

“What I did was...a big, big fuck up. I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. I will have to think about it everyday, and no one around here is about to let me forget.”

Green sighed again and moved the bifold to a drawer in his desk. “I’ll give you the paperwork to fill out at home. What will you do now?”

Clarice held her coffee in both hands and stared into the pale swirl where she had stirred in the cream. 

“I don’t know.”

***

Green offered to walk her out. She declined. In moments of despair, Clarice preferred silence and darkness. She found the only way through was to fully commit herself to the experience.

On the train ride home she felt impossibly light. Her thoughts were few. Though she did not feel them, her reflection showed tears resting on her cheeks. She stared at herself. She saw individual features: light brown eyebrows, hooded blue eyes, hollow cheekbones. But when she looked at the complete picture, it did not make sense. The pieces did not assemble. 

She realized she had not taken notice of her reflection in a long time. 

Upon opening her front door, the emptiness of her apartment was staggering. No greetings, no animal noises. Only the sounds of her own movement.

From under her bed she retrieved a plastic storage container. Inside was a collection of milestones: Dean’s List, Master’s in psychology, acceptance letter to the Academy. Her eyes traced the letters on each document, over and over again: CLARICE MARIE STARLING. 

Sitting on the floor, she fondled the items, and lost time. The sky donned several color shades and cloud formations before she stopped. 

She decided to eat and walked down to McDonald’s. She had not had a cheeseburger since deciding to apply to the FBI. The fat was decadent and comforting. It reminded her of so many evenings in her childhood. Evenings when her father would be leaving for graveyard shift but her mother had not come home from the diner yet. He would buy them McDonald’s for dinner, his treat for their lonely nights.

Her sleep was fitful. She was not even sure it was sleep. It seemed too realistic, too pertinent. Five hours worth of rumination and turning. She rose from her jersey sheets and made a full pot of coffee. She had a long day ahead of her.

She cleaned up her memento mess from the previous night. Tossing the items back in their bin, she placed her tasks in order. _Rent, donate, pack._

Signing into her bank account, Clarice took note of the sum in her savings. She had been saving to make a large payment towards her student loans. Upon opening the transfer window, she became hesitant. She had worked so hard and saved for so long. Was she really going to do this?

She entered the transfer amount, equal to four months’ rent. She wrote a check and a letter explaining her situation. Thermos in hand, she rode the train to her landlord’s office. She would have preferred to explain herself in person--her landlord had been good to her--but she could spare no time. She left the envelope with her receptionist.

It was not even eleven when she began placing items on the curb. Bags of clothes, old textbooks, pots and pans. There was no dearth of people willing to take her goods. She left herself plates and flatware should she come back.

By five her apartment was downright hollow. Sitting on the ground, she filled her suitcase with the clothes she had left: white t-shirts, blue jeans, light cardigans. It would be summer where she was going.

As she lay in bed in the same outfit she had worn all day, she read the email for the fifth time. The email that marked the beginning of the next foreseeable period in her life.

It was a flight itinerary. In two days, she would be walking out of the Ministro Pistarini International Airport in Buenos Aires.


	5. Scars

**Chapter Four**

Clarice began, as she usually did, by making a list.

In the hot air of Argentine summer, she enjoyed an iced coffee and a view of the water. Ardelia’s words reverberated through her. The only person who knew she was here (and, she realized, her only friend) was thoroughly worried about Clarice’s mental health. _Girl, you are crazy. What in the hell do you think you’re doing, running off by yourself?_

_I’m never going to have an opportunity like this again. I will be alright._

And as she looked over the glinting ocean, she felt that was true. She was not prone to optimism, in fact she was wary of it, but for the first time in a while she felt happy.

She wrote down possible occupations for Dr. Lecter in one column and Will Graham in the other. If they were here, they had to be making money somehow. Lecter came from old, old money--but money eventually runs out. 

Graham was a little easier to envision. He had worked in law enforcement all his life, aside from an upbringing in boat repair. Avoiding the scrutiny of government work, it seemed natural that he would rely on his nautical skills in this coastal city. She wrote “MARINA” under his name.

Lecter was difficult to place. He was incredibly intelligent, his background varied. He could teach, translate, treat. Would he be hiding out in the open, or would he be more covert? She could rationalize either position. With less confidence, she wrote “professor” and “artist” in the Dr. Lecter column.

She had not told Ardelia exactly why she was here. That was not the smartest move, she knew, but it was obvious that these people could be dead or in a country across the globe or forever hidden in this city of three million people. Any future disappointment would be her secret.

Still, she could not shake the feeling that had been gnawing at her for months. She had never allowed herself to be superstitious and it was strange to her how much she believed she could solve this. Yet the feeling could not be suppressed. 

There were around a dozen marinas and boat repair shops in the city. Visiting them all while relying on public transportation was going to be challenging. She was relaxed, though. She had nothing but time. 

She decided to start with the smaller shops. Large marinas were international and full of yachts and the kind of people Will avoided. They may also have a stricter hiring process. 

She also decided against going around showing pictures. If she was going to get herself in trouble, that was the fastest way to do it. Plus she had no law enforcement credentials anymore, something that would sting for a long time yet.

The shop closest to her Airbnb rental was small. She spent her afternoon perched on the roadside, watching ropy, tanned men paint boat exteriors and disassemble motors. The longer she watched, the more sure she felt about her strategy. What else could Will Graham be doing? Yet, after hours of watching the same five men, it became clear that this was not his workplace. She moved on.

Over the next three days, she hopped from beach to beach, looking for him. She knew his appearance may have changed, so through her binoculars she looked for scars and limping. The blood collected from Lecter’s second home belonged to Lecter, Dolarhyde, and Graham. They were both pretty banged up.

Strike after strike after strike.

On the fifth day she traveled north of the city center, toward the more residential parts of Buenos Aires. Some of the European architecture began to fade. She had asked some locals, in her decent but obviously American Spanish, about the area. Cheaper, they said. Less exciting, not as much to do.

Previously, that may have pointed away from Lecter. But now…

There was a small hill overlooking the tiny marina where she sat with her notebook and binoculars. The boats bobbing on the water were ugly but robust. Fishing boats, she presumed.

For a while no one came or went through the shop door. She had arrived later in the day than she wanted. The sun beat hard on her neck, which was exposed by her short hair. It was turning redder by the second.

Then two men walked from the shop down to the boats. Older men, one of them easily in his seventies. They appeared to be father and son. They went along the beach, pointing at the boats and talking. The younger of the two whistled and made a waving motion.

A man came to join them. A white man, but tan, with a slight limp to his carriage. Through her binoculars, she could make out a mauve scar along the curve of his cheek. A pair of blue eyes and close-cropped dark hair. 

At first, Clarice wondered if she might be hallucinating. The strength of her desire and the heat could be conspiring against her. Yet, as she stared and stared, the image did not change.

That man was Will Graham.


	6. Quiet

**Chapter Five**

She had to be certain.

Afterall, she had followed what was little more than a hunch to another hemisphere. If she was wrong, or if they slipped away from her, it would be beyond humiliating. She would appear unstable.

The next day she returned with her tools and a large cup of coffee. The sun was just beginning to break and the waves were agitated, effortlessly throwing boats off their crests. 

With the coffee warming her hands, she thought about Will Graham. There were more resources on Graham than Lecter, but that did not make him easier to comprehend. Was he, too, dangerous? Chilton and Freddie Lounds thought so. Molly Graham blamed her loss squarely on the FBI. _Why couldn’t we just be left alone?_

She wasn’t sure herself. She wanted to believe that he was mad or on drugs. Why else would a man of the law be here, thousands of miles away from home, working on boat motors?

The old man and his son arrived first to unlock the shop and glance around the boats. Another man came that she didn’t recognize. He spoke with the old man for a few minutes and left. A customer?

Graham walked down from the street to the shop. Clarice opened her notebook and wrote the address and time. She watched him, hardly blinking, as he climbed onto a rocking boat. It came naturally to him. He didn’t stumble once.

The sun rose and rose. Sweat dewed along her hairline. She ate her lunch of berries, hard cheese, and bread. When her attention began to wander, she doodled forested mountains in the notebook’s margins.

The waves had calmed and the water sparkled so brightly it seemed to be made of diamonds. It was easy to see how Graham had become so tan.

He was tireless in his work, she had to give him that. He was a man who had to keep his hands busy.

Around 1500, he came to shore and started heading to the street. Alarmed, she made a quick note and slid the notebook in her back pocket. She started following, mindful of the distance between them. They were from the same cloth. She could not let herself forget that. 

He lead her to a small parrilla, where he waved familiarly at the person behind the bar. From across the road she watched him eat a modest meal and drink a beer. Saliva pooled along the bottom of her mouth. A beer sounded damn good.

He took out his phone and looked at it for some time. Even through binoculars she could not make out precisely what he was doing. 

The time away from the shore was short. Once his drink was finished, he stood. Clarice made a note of the time.

Her spot was keenly undisturbed. She was struck by the placidity around her. The ocean, the cloudless sky above, even the roads around her were perfectly calm. Her heart began to palpate. She had worked in enough jails and psychiatric units to be uncomfortable with calm.

Pebbles brushed against her heels. Behind her she heard the sound of dirt under feet.

Spinning, she reached for the knife in her pocket. 

She was too slow. 

***

Clarice wandered in and out of dream. Her periods of awakening were very brief; she only had time to note she had been sleeping before her eyelids came together again. Her dreams contained threads that were desperate to come together, faces that seemed so familiar but had no names. A distant voice, possibly her own, told her she had been sleeping long enough. But her head was so heavy.

A different voice, a new voice, spoke. It was quiet, muffled...male. She lived alone. She was not used to voices.

Startled, Clarice forced herself out of her daze. She pinched the skin on her stomach when she felt herself drifting away. Even with eyes open there was only darkness. Inky, solid darkness.

The voice continued. No, this was not her home. 

Straining through layers of mental fog, in which she lost her middle name and birthday, she fought greatly for the last image she saw. What was it? Where was she?

As the seconds slithered by, she recalled pieces. Boats on the ocean. Many boats--and men walking between them. Will Graham appearing through her binoculars. The sensation of being crushed as arms--long arms, strong arms--fastened around her chest. 

Her heart lurched. She had been drugged. Horror set fire to every nerve in her body. A scream built its way up from her chest and she struggled to keep it down. She swallowed and swallowed, her mouth getting drier by the second. _Starling, get yourself together. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t go getting yourself killed._

Quietly and with guarded breath, she reached her right toe down to feel the floor. Once contact was made, she lowered herself one body part at a time. She saw a sliver of light and guessed it was coming from under a door. If she managed to open it, she would be face to face with the voice. She opted to paw around the room instead.

Her fingers hunted for a bump or change in texture. Anything that could tell her what surrounded her. 

Footsteps. She froze, flattening herself against the ground like a lizard hiding from a hawk. A shadow passed over the sliver of light. Her ribs knitted together, clinging to the breath contained within her. 

The voice, much louder now. She could make out its accent and cadence. It was time to move. But the muscles in her legs were still accustomed to sedation and she stumbled with a noticeable thud. 

Panic was overtaken by absolute calm as Clarice realized she was going to die.

The sliver of light expanded into the room and across her body. A shadow, tall and narrow, took a step towards her. She closed her eyes.

She felt the weight of her tongue against her teeth, the motion of her chest, the pulsating of her heart. Life declared its presence in her body. Unsure, she lifted her head.

The room was illuminated. She could see the light parquet floors she was crawling on, the windowless white walls that trapped her. A pair of sleek mahogany shoes stepped in her line of sight. The figure lowered his hips to the floor and presented his face to her.

Clarice knew those eyes. They were deep and wide with a wolfish, hungry look. When the light caught them just right, maroon flecks appeared in the brown irides.

“Hello, Clarice.”


	7. Trust Me

**Chapter Six**

_Four hours earlier_

Hannibal Lecter held the woman tight against his body. Her elbows drove into his stomach, bringing tears to his eyes. He would have to play through the pain. He could not risk letting her go.

He prepared himself for the trickiest maneuver in this dance. If he was going to lose her, it would be during this moment. He had to be ready to perform it in one motion.

Keeping his right arm locked across her throat, he drove his left hand into his pocket and grabbed the syringe. His fingers twisted to remove the needle cap and, just as she began writhing away, he jabbed the needle into the vastus lateralis muscle of her left thigh. Startled, she lost her concentration. He returned his left arm to her chest. If he could keep her restrained for a few more minutes, the combination of haloperidol and lorazepam would begin to slow her.

Her throws and kicks grew weaker. He could feel her chest rise with less force. As he began dragging her to the car, she continued her efforts to jerk away, though she had to know her situation was looking dim. She was determined. 

He was curious about her life. He had been following her for two days and noted she was always alone. No partner, no team. Seemed odd for a law enforcement officer. Perhaps she was something else entirely. 

He managed to shove her in the backseat. She was noticeably sedated. The look in her eyes was far away and she had difficulty sitting upright. He asked her her name and she did not even glance in his direction. She would be sleeping very soon.

Hannibal drove cautiously, planning his next move should sirens appear behind him. They never did. That puzzled him. This woman was truly on a solo mission. 

He parked along the curb in front of his apartment complex. Never before had he been so grateful to have a first floor apartment. Carrying her bridal style to the door, he had in mind the words he would say to his neighbors. _My sister-in-law. She’s a bit of a lush._

In an earlier part of his life, he could rely on his tongue to make its own lies. He would not have to practice so. But he was rusty, and had much more to lose.

The second bedroom was carefully manicured. Yesterday he made sure to remove any sharp objects, heavy books, and light furniture. Now all that remained was a twin bed and bulky dark bookcase containing softcover novels. It was more austere than he would have liked aesthetically, but it was necessary.

He laid her on the bed and took notice of her features for the first time. She was lean but muscular, with an athleticism that reminded him of his own. Her face was pale--sallow even. The sallowness was not helped by the red tones in her hair. He could not smell illness on her, though the stench of cortisol--common in anxious people--was everywhere.

He removed her boots and decided to take them away until he knew what to expect from her.

After taking a deliberate tour of the room, Hannibal closed the door and locked it behind him. The one-way lock had been a simple installation. Will did not mention it last night, leaving Hannibal to believe he had not noticed.

After pouring himself a glass of Malbec, he sat in the meridienne and pulled the woman’s wallet from his pocket. A brown leather bifold with no brand name. Lifting the tip to his lips, he breathed in: shea butter (lotion), coffee (beverage of choice), a whiff of tobacco smoke (not a regular smoker but had a cigarette recently). He opened it tenderly and saw her face staring up at him.

VIRGINIA DRIVER’S LICENSE  
STARLING, CLARICE MARIE  
DOB: 09/07/1989  
Height: 5-04 Sex: F

Starling. A Southern surname, usually. Scottish in origin.

There were no photographs, no charms, no letters. Even receipts were conspicuously absent. Despite himself, frustration began to build.

Then, upon spreading the back fold further open, he saw something that worried him: a CharmCard, the pass used for Maryland public transit. Combined with a Virginia driver’s license and Danner boots, Hannibal saw a picture unfurling that he did not want to see. He was not surprised, but things were certainly getting more _complicated._

He did not bother trying to go through her phone. Access surely required a passcode, and he could wait a few hours for her to stir. Preemptive questioning would only serve to confuse; she would be an unreliable historian until the medication began to clear. 

He leaned back and sipped from his glass. Pursing his lips gently, he let out a faint whistle. Dulce, a beige and white pit bull mix, ran from the master bedroom to his feet. He stroked her behind the ear. In his other hand, he rolled the glass stem between his index finger and thumb. The purple liquid turned in soft circles. 

He knew he had to call Will.

“Hello?” Will’s voice broke, as it was wont to do when he was nervous.

“She’s in the guest room.”

“...Dead or alive?”

“Alive.”

“Hannibal, _why_ is she alive?” Anger and disappointment, but no surprise. No, he was never surprised anymore. 

“I did tell you, Will, that I thought it would be prudent to investigate before acting.”

“It wasn’t very prudent to bring her to our apartment.”

For several seconds, tension spread between them, so taut and sensitive it could snap at any moment. Hannibal braved himself for the repercussions and began to speak again.

“I found something. You will not like it.”

Will breathed in heavily, preparing himself for a sigh. His breath crackled into the phone. “Oh, hell. What?” 

“Virginia driver’s license and a CharmCard. She was wearing Danner boots.” While saying it aloud, his heart began to speed up. He was growing uncharacteristically distressed.

Another excruciating pause. “She’s FBI.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And you haven’t seen anyone else with her?”

“No.”

Will cleared his throat. “I’m coming home. Wake her up.”

“She is a smaller woman. The dose I gave her will keep her sedated for another two hours, at least.”

“I’m going to tell Mateo I’m not feeling well.” 

“You need to trust me.”

“That doesn’t always end well.”

“I don’t want this to fall apart anymore than you do.”

Hannibal could hear wind beat into the microphone as Will paced. 

“Alright. I’m still going to leave work early. I won’t be any good with this over my head.”

“If you insist. I love you.”

The delay was so pronounced that Hannibal checked his screen to see if the call had ended.

“I love you, Hannibal. I just...you can make my life hell.”

And with that, Will hung up.


	8. Unscathed

_April 2020_

Dr. Alana Bloom had changed much about the former Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Most obviously, she successfully advocated for changing the name to the more modern Baltimore State Forensic Hospital. She invested much money into new paint and tile, stripping away the 1950s soft baby pink once believed to soothe. She disposed of the individual, cage-like stalls in favor of large, multi-patient rooms for those who did not require solitary. Most spectacularly, and most controversially, she converted the top level to an extravagant patient suite entirely for Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Because the money for this project was Verger money, the project was done, and it was done beautifully.

Clarice felt eyes on her as she explored the suite. She breathed in the dust of antique books, bathed in the sun from the skylight above. Her fingertips traced along the plastic barrier that kept him away from the world.

She stopped and looked to Alana and Dr. Chilton, who watched her from the hallway.

“Why did you do this?”

“I thought he might be more amiable if his level of comfort was maintained.”

Clarice imagined him in a white jumpsuit, reading Milton by daylight, sketching Will from memory.

She shook her head. “Sorry, I wasn’t clear. Dr. Chilton...why?”

He approached and stood alongside Alana. He still needed the support of his cane.

“I think you would agree that Lecter, for all he is not truly insane, has a...unique mind. The possibility of having him to study for the rest of his life was too enticing.”

“And did you learn anything from him?”

“Only that Graham was also madly in love. That would have been nice to know beforehand.”

Alana grimaced and looked to the floor. Clarice continued to walk around the room. 

“I think I could learn something from you.” She glanced over her shoulder but said nothing.

“You’re an anomaly, Clarice. Everyone who has faced Hannibal Lecter has lost something. Dr. Bloom lost her mobility for months, not to mention some self-respect, I assume.” 

Alana’s eyes narrowed as she interrupted. “Where are you going with this, Frederick?” 

He kept on. “I lost an eye, half of my upper jaw, some of my bowel, my skin, my reputation. Miriam Lass lost an arm. Bedelia du Maurier lost a leg. Molly Graham lost her husband. Abigail Hobbs and dozens of others lost their lives. My question for you, Clarice, is how did you manage to do what no one else could? How did you escape Hannibal Lecter _unscathed?_ He always had an affection for attractive people; he doesn’t like to ruin the aesthetic too much, prefers to keep the injuries internal if he can. But you were not even scratched. He must have found you _gorgeous_ to keep you in such good condition.”

Alana spoke again, raising her voice this time. “Frederick--”

Hot blood rushed to Clarice’s cheeks. “I am not unscathed, but thank you for the compliment. It is reassuring to know that I can rely on my looks to save my life.”

“Okay.” Alana rose her hands in a stopping gesture. “I don’t think an interview is going to happen, Frederick. Perhaps a more therapeutic approach next time.”

“There’s not going to be a next time. Goodbye, Dr. Chilton.” Clarice sat in a large white armchair that seemed to swallow her whole. She closed her eyes and rested her head in her hands.

Chilton’s face fell. “You can’t blame a man for being curious.”

“Frederick, please. She doesn’t need this right now.”

“We all have scars on our psyche, Clarice. Why not profit from yours? Lord knows Freddie Lounds has. Just food for thought.” He left. The sound of his cane against concrete echoed up from the stairs.

Alana leaned against the chair, fighting back the urge to place her hand on Clarice’s shoulder. Clarice was easily startled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think he would go for the jugular like that. I warned him beforehand, too.”

Clarice blinked away tears. “Not your fault. What I get for being greedy, I guess.”

“There’s nothing wrong with trying to provide for yourself.”

They were silent for a while. Alana could feel the heat emanating from Clarice begin to dissipate. 

“Alana, I’m not alright.”

“I know.”

“I lost a large part of myself down there. More than you even know.”

“When you’re ready, I would like to hear about it. I hope you can tell me more about them.”

“Are you sure you want to know? You might not like what I have to say.” Her Appalachian accent grew much heavier when she was upset. Her speech seemed to lengthen tenfold. 

Alana sighed and rubbed the corner of her eye, smearing a bit of eyeliner as she did so. “I know, but I’ve hidden from the truth for a long, long time.”

Clarice lifted her eyes to meet Alana’s. They traded small, uncomfortable smiles. Clarice wiped away the last of her tears. 

“Do you want to grab a drink?”

Alana’s smile widened. “Yes, that would do us both some good.”


	9. Special

_November 2018_

The first thing Will saw upon opening the front door was Dulce’s wagging tail.

It was difficult to sustain his level of anger when he saw her hopeful, dumb face. He bent down and scratched behind her ears. She returned the favor by licking his chin. 

As he always did, Hannibal approached to take Will’s lunchbox and work bag. Will stood and faced his husband. He frowned.

“Anything else?”

“I searched for her. She does not have a strong social media presence. I did find a UVA email and an old LinkedIn account. She has a Master’s degree in Clinical Psychology from Virginia State.”

Will looked up to the ceiling. “God, Hannibal. She’s FBI.”

Hannibal placed his hands on Will’s shoulders, then moved up to cup his face. “Yes, likely. But no one has come for her. She did not touch her phone in the hours that I followed her. I do not know what to make of it, but I do not think we’re in immediate danger.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Hannibal placed Will’s items in the hallway closet and offered him a glass of wine. Will enthusiastically accepted.

After a few sips, Will asked to see her. He wanted to get a taste for her. 

They approached the guest bedroom. Will was barely breathing. 

Upon opening the door, Clarice did not stir. She was still lost to the world, the antipsychotic and benzodiazepine cocktail working to suppress the excitatory neurotransmitters in her body.

She was smaller than he had imagined, but muscular. She wore blue Levi’s and a gray t-shirt that showcased a pair of well-defined biceps. He could tell by the way her shirt draped that she wore a sports bra. Her nails were very short, with no white tips, and clean. She was preternaturally pale. Will wondered if she was anemic.

Her hair was more red than brown and shaggy, the bangs hanging around her ears. It appeared as though her hair had grown out after being cropped close to the scalp at one point. She wore a bit of makeup, some tinted moisturizer and mascara. Her face was an Irish pretty, with rosy cheeks and freckles across her nose and under her eyes.

She was in good shape but did not eat particularly well. She was too busy. Too busy to maintain much of anything. He envisioned her going to work with the sunrise and returning home with the sunset. 

But where was work?

He turned to Hannibal. “Was she a fighter?”

“I will have bruises tomorrow.”

No wedding ring, no jewelry of any kind, not even earrings. A plain black digital watch that displayed military time. No visible tattoos. 

“Help me turn her over.”

He looked behind her ears, along her lower back. Then, upon reaching her ankles, he saw one. A small tattoo on her right ankle. It was a rose, faded and poorly lined. A teenage flirtation with needles or a drunken college dare, he guessed. They turned her supine again.

Will stared at the lines of her face for a while. It was haunting to him, how little she gave up.

“What are you thinking about, Will?”

“Honestly, nothing. Nothing at all.” 

*** 

Clarice sat on the bed’s edge. Her muscles quivered from hip to toe as her mind began to clear. She envisioned attacking Hannibal Lecter with every ounce of energy she had. Her desperation might overcome his size and brawn. 

But she knew acting on this impulse would mean her end. Her father’s advice reverberated through her skull: _if you get kidnapped, do anything they say; try to become their friend._

Hannibal entered the room with a chair under his arm. He placed it a respectful distance across from her and sat. He was purposeful and graceful in his movements. She remembered that he was a dancer. 

“I am going to ask you a series of questions. Since you have been sedated recently, I will be patient, but I expect you to answer to the best of your ability. Do you know who I am?”

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

“Good. Then you know that I am a well-trained observer of people. If you lie, obfuscate, or embellish, I will know, and there will be consequences. If you cooperate, I will treat you well. First, what is your full name?”

“Clarice Marie Starling.” Her throat felt tight. She had never been so thirsty. 

“And the name of the man you’ve been following?”

“Will Graham.”

“In the interest of our safety, I will ask this now: is anyone expecting contact with you?”

“No. I’m here by myself. Only one person knows where I am.”

Hannibal looked over Clarice’s face. Her eyes were dull, but resolute. Her pupils did not enlarge. She was telling the truth.

He crossed his legs and leaned back. “Thank you, Clarice. I appreciate your candor. What is your business here?”

“I...I was a Special Agent, until a week ago. I was dedicated to getting on the team assigned to your case. I did a lot of research on my own time, but it didn’t happen officially. When I...when my job ended, I couldn’t just let it go. I had to see.”

He assessed her again and found her just as unwavering. Her irises were a brilliant powder blue and, while they were slightly fearful, they met his gaze with courage. He watched the cartilage in her neck slide up and down as she swallowed. 

“You wanted to see if you were correct?”

“Yes.” 

“You did well. Very well.”

“Thank you.”

“How did you know to come to Buenos Aires?”

“Margot Verger said she saw you. Her report is not being taken very seriously.”

“But you believed her. I do wish, Clarice, that you could call your superiors. This must be bitterly disappointing.”

“That is one way to describe this.”

He smiled at her. “You’re quick. Why are you no longer with the Bureau?”

She paused and brought her index finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose. He observed her with interest. She closed her eyes and pinched. Shame, distress.

“We finally caught up to a big time drug dealer, who we had been tracking for some time. He had his daughter with him, a baby. Just a baby. We busted in and I saw him raise his gun in my direction. He had the baby at his chest. I didn’t think, I just...I panicked. I fired before anyone else. It started a firefight between our team and his guys. People got hurt.”

“You defended yourself. That doesn’t seem like a fireable offense.”

“They probably would have disciplined me. I chose to leave.”

He laced his fingers across the top knee, tilted his head slightly, moved his chin and eyes forward to demonstrate attentiveness. Clarice had seen this pose on every psychiatrist she had ever known. 

“You are hard on yourself, aren’t you, Clarice?”

“More than the average person, I would guess.”

“Rest assured, you are special.”

They locked eyes again. A flush bloomed across her cheeks for the briefest moment, followed by a look of distaste. He smiled again.

“Dr. Lecter, can I ask you something?”

“I cannot promise I will answer, but please do.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“You’ve been courteous and honest. I appreciate that. I have no plans to kill you for now. I will go over ground rules with you, but first, would you like something to eat?”

She shook her head, “I am quite nauseous, but thank you.”

“I will bring you a glass of water, as well as bread and butter. It will help settle your stomach.”

As effortlessly as he came, he left. In Clarice’s head echoed the words they exchanged. She picked apart every word she said, syllable by syllable. Had she said too much? Too little? He seemed to approve of her answers.

And then there were his words. He stated he would not kill her. Could that be so?

_Rest assured, you are special._

She felt eyes on her neck. She turned and was startled to see a figure standing in the doorway. Will stared at her, not blinking once.

Her mind went to white as she dared to make eye contact with him. His face was stone. What could she say?

A pit bull bounced into the room, tennis ball in her mouth, and begged Clarice to try and take it. The glimmer of normalcy brought Clarice great relief. She reached for the ball, causing the dog to run away. When she looked back to the door, Will was gone.


	10. Clean Your Mess

Will woke before the sun. 

During the summer demand at the marina was high. The work was grueling and paid little, but he liked it well enough. Boats presented problems he could fix. They were problems of structural integrity, fuel consumption, cosmetics. Boats did not have minds.

Normally Hannibal rose with him, but this morning he stayed in his place, his back rigid and turned away. It would not surprise Will if he was indeed awake, with no intention of revealing that to him. 

In addition to reading, drawing, and cooking, Hannibal thought. On more than one occasion, Will had come home to Hannibal looking out the window in complete silence. He thought about everything from 14th century tapestries to contemporary Scandinavian architecture to what the neighbor woman wore to Mass. He could think himself to the point of fatigue, which is what Will suspected had happened last night. The extent of Hannibal’s mind scared Will as much today as it ever did.

Will actively avoided thought. The images that came to him were relentless and dark. When he was around people, he adopted their mannerisms and envisioned their anxieties and aspirations. He could not avoid it anymore than he could avoid breathing.

So he stayed with his boats most of the day. It made life less complicated.

He passed by the closed door of their second bedroom and made a conscious decision not to think of that woman now. If he considered the uncertainty so suddenly reintroduced to his life, he would panic. He needed to get to work.

On the fridge was a note, delicately folded and taped. He separated the edges and saw his partner’s impeccable cursive.

_As Byron once wrote:_

_I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all._

Clever, always so damn clever.

Hannibal’s perpetual Achilles’ heel was his fancy; he could have difficulty reconciling his vision with practicality. Will had known this for many years, but knowledge did not assuage worry. 

He had contemplated killing the woman. Hannibal would play with her until he grew bored, but that could take a while. By then Interpol might be at their door. It would benefit them both if this problem was just eradicated. 

But stealing Hannibal’s toy would inevitably cause an argument that he was not ready to have. Not yet. If he could be convinced, that would be ideal. 

Before leaving, Will wrote his own note:

_H.--_

_Please clean up your mess._

_Love,_

_W._

 

***

 

Hannibal walked Dulce in the mornings now. Will’s mornings were too early even for her; she slept through them by their bed, tail across her nose.

When they returned from their outing he prepared her breakfast: chicken and wild rice with egg yolks. They used to feed her kibble, but seeing her eat the same item over and over again made Hannibal depressed. And the dog food smelled atrocious.

Now he prepared her two daily meals. He had the time, working from home as a translator. The money was variable, but assignments were steady due to his proficiency in several languages. One of these languages--Lithuanian--was uncommon and intricate, and those assignments paid well.

He began the espresso maker and poured Dulce’s breakfast into her bowl. The voracity with which she ate was only matched by the speed of her tail as it wagged. He knew that she was healthier, her coat glossier, though Will claimed he could tell no difference.

His own meal would be preternaturally mundane. His appetite had escaped him, and his task list for the day ahead was long.

He unlocked Clarice’s door but did not open it. It would be telling if she left the room on her own accord.

Halfway through his breakfast of chorizo and wheat toast, he heard the trademark squeak of a door hinge. There were light footsteps, regulated breathing. A pause every now and then. She stepped into the kitchen.

He looked at her and felt sorry. Her hair was knotted and she wore the same clothes he had caught her in. He made a note to give her something fresh. 

“Good morning, Clarice. What would you like for breakfast?”

He could hear the blood humming in her face and throat. She was nervous, but tried desperately to hide that fact. “Whatever is easiest for you, thank you.”

Opening the fridge, he pulled out eggs and sausage. He watched her eyes skeptically narrow at the meat in his hand. When they made eye contact, he shook his head “no” and her face relaxed. 

“We have a long day ahead of us. I recommend coffee. We have a delicious Brazilian roast on hand.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“We do have cream and sugar, though I advise taking it black to get the best flavor.”

“I can drink black.”

He tried his best not to give her his back as he cooked. From the moment she entered the kitchen, she had not taken her eyes off of him.

“You have a drawl, Clarice. You try to hide it with your proper grammar but the long vowels reveal you. Appalachian?”

Color spread across her cheeks. He wondered if he were a different person, and she were in a different situation, if she would have reprimanded him for his curiosity.

“West Virginia.”

He nodded in recognition. Her eyes, a shocking blue in the early morning light, were prying. 

With her mind more acute, Clarice could notice details she had missed the night before. Hannibal had let his facial hair grow in slightly, giving him a shadow around his mouth and across his jawline. His hair, which was long and kept in a small knot above his nape, was streaked with silver. He wore a gold ring on his left ring finger. She thought this was odd, but he had posed as a married man before. 

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m renting an Airbnb downtown.”

“We will begin our day there. First, would you like to shower?”

“Very much so.” 

“You understand that you will not be given a razor, and the door will stay open.”

“I’ve worked in locked facilities. I know the drill.”

She had been forcing herself to make eye contact with him, while cautiously avoiding seeming angry or intimidating. How she presented herself to Hannibal could be life or death. And this was a man with high standards.

He walked her to the bathroom when she finished her meal. He provided her with an athletic shirt and a pair of gym shorts. They would hang on her, but it was the best he could do. Will would not appreciate the use of his clothes. 

When he handed her a towel, their fingers brushed. She hurriedly recoiled. When their eyes met, she wore a look of abashment. She quickly attempted to hide her disgust. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

His expression was impossible to read. His lips tightened, but that was the only change in his face. “It’s alright, Clarice.”

He left her with the door wide open. Clarice stood still for several seconds, afraid to remove her clothes. She peered around the door jamb and did not see him.

_Don’t be stupid. Him seeing your naked body is the least of your worries._

She undressed, keeping her soiled clothes in a tidy pile. She realized that, at some point in the evening, she had pissed herself. _Wonderful. I’m sure he smelled that._

The bathroom was cramped but the components were clean and modern. An incongruously large mirror above the pedestal sink forced her to see herself. Her skin appeared to be translucent, with blue veins wrapping around her breasts and up to her throat. She looked weak, and she hated it. 

The tight walk-in shower was across from the porcelain bathtub. She stepped in and turned on the water, anticipating the jolting cold. It still felt like a punch to the throat, but in a way she enjoyed it. The pain took her out of the oppressive numbness that had plagued her all morning. 

Her eyes fell over the array of shampoos, conditioners, body washes, and soaps. A rainbow of expensive packaging. The brands were recognizable, even to her: Jack Black, Peter Thomas Roth. As she showered, she was consumed by scents that were undoubtedly masculine but floral and sometimes sweet. Everything had to be a consuming experience with this man.

He had a day planned for the two of them. Would he hurt her? It didn’t seem so. But sociopaths were unpredictable.

She thought, briefly, about killing herself. There had to be a way, and no one but Will Graham survives Hannibal Lecter.

Will Graham. She had forgotten about Will Graham. Where did he fit into this? He seemed to live here with Hannibal. Was he converted, and would he want her dead?

Too many questions, and Clarice hated not having answers. The only thing she loathed more than being weak was being dumb. 

After her second shampooing, she decided that she needed to know. She could taste the rest of her life on the tip of her tongue. She would not spend it in the dark. She would not lie forever with the screaming.


	11. Taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexually explicit content ahead (Hannibal/Will)

**Chapter Ten**

_“The ‘monster’ version of the mythical creature is human-like, but very tall and gaunt, with deeply sunken eyes and yellowish, decaying skin. They are impossibly thin and have an unending hunger that craves only human flesh.”--The Wendigo, gods-and-monsters.com_

While Clarice dressed, Hannibal dressed as well. He laid out three outfits before choosing the most casual one. Dark wash jeans with a white v-neck tee. When he looked into the mirror, he saw an ex-pat enjoying the beaches of South America. Someone entirely unexceptional.

Clarice met him in the hallway. His workout clothes draped loosely on her, which had the benefit of making her look younger. No curious glances should be cast their direction. This afternoon they would be a mere father and daughter, shopping together. 

“Shall we go?”

He led her to the street where his Fiat was parked. When she lowered herself into the passenger seat, the scent struck her: just a hint of dog and ocean buried under clove aftershave. She remembered that she had been in this car before. She also remembered that the same scent wafted into her room when Will Graham appeared before her.

She directed Hannibal to her apartment and watched his profile as he drove. His long legs were nearly up to his chest in the compact vehicle. The white shirt accentuated his summer tan, and his cheekbones were even more pointed up close. 

He was a good-looking man. She wasn’t sure she had noticed before. It was easy to see how so many had been charmed into his grasp. 

“Tell me something about yourself, Clarice.”

She tore herself away from his face and stared over her right shoulder. The buildings were tall with gothic angles and spires. She had never been to Europe, but she imagined it looked something like this. 

“There’s not much to tell. I’m pretty boring.”

“I know that’s not true.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Are you close with your family?”

“No.”

“Is there a man in your life?”

“No.”

“A woman?”

“No.” 

He looked to her. She was reticent, but did not seem particularly panicked. He surmised that this was her manner. 

He decided to ask her his favorite question, one that he once posed to every new patient.

“What frightens you?”

He heard her breath accelerate. She bit her lower lip.

“Failure.”

“That does not surprise me. You seem the self-disciplined type. Preternaturally so.”

“What are you afraid of, Dr. Lecter?” 

They arrived at her rental. 

“That, Clarice, is a discussion for another time.”

He followed her closely up the stairs. She could feel his breath on her skin. Her knife sat firmly in his pocket.

When they entered the apartment, his first step was to place a stack of Argentine pesos on the kitchen counter. Clarice looked at him quizzically. He gave her a disarming smile. “It’s the least I can do, wouldn’t you agree?” 

She hesitated, but returned the smile. “Thank you.”

As she wrote a thank you note to the owners, Hannibal walked from room to room. In the bathroom he found a circular case containing birth control. Next to it was a yellow pill bottle. The label read “ALPRAZOLAM 0.25 MG”. 

He read the label several times before returning to the living room. Clarice was packing her clothes. 

“Do you have any evening attire?”

She paused and considered before shaking her head. “Not anything ‘cocktail party,’ no.”

“I will get you something. I like to entertain.”

She wore a confused expression, but opted to say nothing. 

 

***

Their next stop was a drugstore. Hannibal offered to buy Clarice any toiletries she might need. He let her wander away from him as she patrolled the aisles, but his eyes pursued her. She could sense them on her back, waiting for her to blunder. 

She could shout. She could run for the door. What could he do?

_Don’t be arrogant. This is Hannibal Lecter we’re dealing with._

She decided her priority at this point was a toothbrush. The taste of sedating drugs and coffee felt awful in her mouth. 

He met her around the corner. His basket contained deodorant, face wipes, and tampons. She wondered how many other kidnappers had purchased tampons for their captives. She was briefly, oddly touched before recalling who was in front of her.

“Anything else?”

She led him to cosmetics and placed a tube of L’Oreal mascara in the basket. “I feel naked without it.”

A lighthearted comment, unsolicited. A good sign. “I understand. I, too, feel naked without my mascara.”

She laughed, despite herself. 

_If you’re kidnapped, try to become their friend._

***

He had one task left for her when they returned to his home. She sat in the living room loveseat and closed her eyes at his request. When he said she could open them, her cell phone was in his hands.

“Call your friend, the one who knows you’re in Argentina. Tell her you’re going to stay. I will watch you.”

She took a deep breath and selected Ardelia from her contacts. Her heart pounded as it rang. 

“Hello?”

Clarice’s eyes met Hannibal’s. She could tell he was tense, too.

“Hey, Ardelia.”

“Girl! How is it down there?”

“Hot as hell. Beautiful, though.”

“When do you think you’ll be home?”

“That’s the thing...I don’t know.”

“You found a man, didn’t you? I told you that would happen.”

She sustained her eye contact with Hannibal. His irides gleamed a deep burgundy. 

“You could say that.”

She made small talk with Ardelia and ended the conversation by stating she was having a great time, and was unsure of when she would return. When she hung up, Hannibal looked on her approvingly.

“Good performance.”

“Thanks.”

He invited her to prepare dinner with him. She sliced mushrooms as he explained the recipe for _coquilles St-Jacques,_ Will’s favorite. 

“Will will be joining us?”

He finished selecting an appropriate sauvignon blanc from the pantry. He turned to her and gave her a roguish grin. “Yes. Will lives here.”

Dulce weaved in between each of their legs, determined to find a stray food item. Hannibal bent down to offer her a small spoonful of heavy cream. Her eyes were large with adoration.

“I bet she’s the best fed dog in Argentina.”

“That is my goal.”

He offered Clarice a drink. Her knees almost buckled under her enthusiasm as she accepted a glass of the sauvignon blanc. She was a beer drinker usually, but wine suited her just fine.

As she drank, she felt more courageous. She knew that also meant losing some discretion, but Hannibal seemed to want her around.

“Can I ask what you expect of me, Dr. Lecter?”

“Courtesy and cooperation, for now. Thus far you have been successful on both accounts.”

Not a satisfactory answer, but she did not want to push the matter.

Dulce ran to the front door and began whining and wiggling. Soon after, Will entered. He dropped to the floor and let her lick his face. “Hey, big girl, how are you?”

Clarice had to think about where she was. Perhaps these were old friends of hers and she was in some sort of dissociative state. Perhaps she was having a fever dream. She pinched herself on the arm.

Wide awake. 

When he stood, he saw her and froze. He did not bother to hide the look of discontent on his face.

“Clarice, right?”

“Yes.”

He glanced over to Hannibal. “I suppose you’ll be staying here a while.”

Hannibal plated their dinners, ignoring Will’s comment. Clarice set them on the table. There was no formal dining room in the apartment, but a four-person dining table served as a demarcation between the living room and kitchen. 

She decided it would be wise to sit away from Will. 

Hannibal poured a generous amount of wine into each of their glasses. He beamed at them before taking his seat. “Bon appetit!”

The dinner was rich, tangy, full of fat. If paradise had a flavor, it was in this dish. She ate with gusto, never lifting her eyes from the plate. When she went in for seconds, she caught Hannibal smiling at her. 

“It is palatable, I trust?”

She nodded. “God, yes.”

Will poured himself another serving of wine. Clarice had not even touched hers. He took a meager bite and leaned back, clutching his glass.

“So, when did you graduate from the Academy?”

“Three years ago.”

“Too recent for Jack Crawford.”

“Yes, though he still comes around from time to time, for talks and such. I haven’t had the opportunity to meet him.”

“How unfortunate.”

She worked on her second plate, unsure of what to say, or if she should say anything at all. Dulce lied by Will’s feet. 

Hannibal intervened. “Will, have you lost your taste for _coquilles?_ ”

“I don’t have a taste for anything at the moment.”

They finished their tense, hurried meal. Hannibal accompanied Clarice to the bathroom as Will took Dulce outside. 

Hannibal supervised as she brushed her teeth and washed her face. He watched beads of water fall away from her forehead and down her button nose. With her face bare, he could see each taupe freckle that resided under her eyes and across her nose. 

Before he followed her to the bedroom, she turned to face him. “He hates me being here.”

“Yes, there is no question of that.”

She took a step towards Hannibal. Their proximity highlighted their size difference. It was not lost on Clarice. She knew he could maim her with little effort. 

She looked up to him. “Is that something I need to worry about?”

“Not for now.”

Her face made subtle movements as she studied him. She refused to blink.

“Good night, Dr. Lecter.”

“Good night, Clarice.”

***

Clarice curled up on the bed, bringing her knees to her forehead. Her lower back always tightened when she was stressed, and tonight the pain was insufferable. The only relief she could find was in the fetal position.

She closed her eyes tightly and attempted to breathe through the discomfort. Though most nights she tried to avoid sleep, she begged for it tonight. Anything had to be better than her waking life.

Her wishes were soon dashed. Muffled voices appeared. They were loud, aggressive. She could recognize which voice belonged to Hannibal and which belonged to Will, though she could not determine what was being said. She could only assume it had to do with her. 

The voices grew from intense to shouting. As she buried her head in the pillow, she felt like a child again, pretending not to hear her parents fighting. She tried to call to mind a song to sing herself to sleep, but nothing came to mind.

***

Will closed their bedroom door with a noticeable bang. Dulce scurried to her rarely used dog bed and cowered. 

“What the hell is this, Hannibal?”

Hannibal was running a comb through his hair. “She’s harmless, Will.”

“Suddenly you have a soft spot for the harmless.”

“I believe she could be of use to us.”

“In what possible way? We were _fine._ We had finally left everything behind.” Aggravation constricted his larynx, forcing his voice to become a tremulous cry.

Hannibal stayed calm. “I have a plan.”

Will interlaced his fingers and placed them on the top of his head. His shoulders and back made audible popping noises as he did so. He looked depleted. 

“You always do, and I’m always left outside the veil.”

Hannibal walked to Will and began undoing his belt. “It is not entirely formulated, yet. I promise to tell you when it is more concrete.”

As Will’s pants fell to the ground, Hannibal pulled his shirt over his head. The smell of salt water filled the room. 

He clasped the back of Will’s head and pulled him close. He began kissing Will’s neck.

“You’re not going to make me forgive you.”

“I can try.”

The tip of Hannibal’s tongue ran along the prominent muscles of Will’s neck. His fingers traced the lines and peaks of his back. His canines grazed over his throat. Will quivered under his touch. Hannibal pulled away and looked into Will’s eyes.

Will sighed. “Goddamnit, Hannibal.”

They kissed. Hannibal kept one hand on Will’s face, his thumb brushing his ear. The other hand slithered down, reaching between Will’s legs. Will’s groan vibrated into Hannibal’s skin.

Hannibal’s fingers were just as nimble as the rest of his body. They wrapped themselves, one by one, around Will’s shaft. Will pushed his tongue far into Hannibal’s mouth. He pushed farther and farther until their bodies fell across the bed. 

He whispered, harshly, for Hannibal to suck his cock. Hannibal pinned him down and complied with fervor. 

Sweat dewed along their faces and chests. Their lips absorbed the salty taste of one another. They exchanged powerful, rapid breaths and the ancient, carnal sounds of pleasure. They had a talent for simultaneous climaxes, and tonight was no exception. 

Sex was never so intense as it was with Hannibal. The physical boundaries between them ceased to exist. Time was not a reality in their bedroom. Minutes felt like hours, hours felt like minutes. Will was surprised each time he came back as a whole.

They assumed their usual post-coital positions. Hannibal, turned on his side to face Will. Will, on his back to stare at the ceiling. The muscles deep within his abdomen and along his backside were exquisitely sore.

Will’s stomach was still covered in himself. Hannibal left to bring him a towel. When he returned, he wiped Will clean and placed his feet in his lap. He began massaging them, inch by inch. Will’s eyes rolled. He gave Hannibal a slight grin.

“You must feel pretty guilty.”

“ _Appreciative,_ Will.”

“Do you remember when you told me ‘sex is just sex,’ about your relationship with Bedelia?”

Hannibal stopped for a moment and stared at the floor.

“Yes. What brought that to mind?”

“Was it like this?”

He gripped Will’s ankles tightly. “No, never. Never with anyone else.”

“You’ve never been in love with anyone else.”

“Neither have you.”

Will continued staring down the ceiling, and did not protest. 

As sleep came for Hannibal, Will remained awake. He wanted to drift away, the weight of Hannibal’s arm on his hips sending him to darkness. Instead, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was another presence in the room, watching their every breath.


	12. Quid Pro Quo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of Clarice's back story in this chapter, and the dialogue, has been adapted from Thomas Harris' The Silence of the Lambs. I did alter details to make them more modern. This is also true of Hannibal's back story. 
> 
> Side note: Upon rewatching Season 3, I realized I forgot Chilton becomes terribly mutilated and did not touch on that in a previous chapter. I apologize. I will address this as needed.

**Chapter Eleven**

_“You can always count on a murderer for fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.”--Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita_

_Alana Bloom walked into the room with four behavioral health technicians and an FBI agent sporting a rifle. One of the technicians pushed the dolly restraint used for moving him. They all stopped and turned to look in his direction. In their eyes he saw hatred, but mostly fear._

_“The elevator’s broken. We will have to go out the front.”_

_“I will miss you too, Alana.”_

_“You’re not going anywhere.”_

_He smiled, showing her his teeth. “If you say so.”_

_The technicians put the jacket on first, then placed him on the dolly. They pulled the straps tighter than usual._

_The mask was last. He noticed the same technician had done this every time during his stay. No one else seemed willing._

_Alana led the troop down the stairs. Hannibal and the technician pushing him were following by the FBI agent. They went slowly, the technician taking great care to keep his control over the dolly as they descended._

_They met at the bottom. Alana used her badge to open a pair of heavy automatic doors. A foul, caustic smell hit his nostrils._

_The first floor. Patients shared rooms here, if able. They were mildly disabled, or personality deficients without much imagination. Serial arsonists and rapists._

_They watched attentively as the group passed. They were mumblings up and down the hallway._

_“Holy shit, it’s him.” “No fucking way.” “What’s goin’ on?”_

_He kept his eyes fixed on the door at the end._

_A wolf whistle from behind. “Hey pretty boy!”_

_Another voice, grumbled and grotesque. “I could fuck your ass all night long.”_

_Finally, they were finished. They pushed by the staff offices and breakroom, through the lobby, and left the building through the main entrance. The late summer sun felt like a kiss on Hannibal’s nose._

_It had been so long since he had bathed in the sun._

_Will waited in the van._

This scene made its way into Hannibal’s dreams over and over again. He was not sure why. His mind seemed stuck on the dichotomy: an ugly, cheap feeling followed by pure elation. 

In another lifetime, he would have been angry. He would have fantasized revenge on those who made him feel undignified; their bodies, horribly mutilated, would be depicted in his sketchbook. He would not feel comfort until he took their lips and their hearts.

Hannibal did not dwell much anymore. Some rooms in his memory palace were still visited, but not often by choice. He was not prone to second guesses. And, overall, he was a happy man. 

*** 

Clarice spent her time cleaning. 

She was too anxious to read. She was especially too anxious to read the medieval and Shakespearean tomes that were in her room. Instead, she exercised to the point of near vomiting: push ups, crunches, squats, mountain climbers, jumping jacks. But even that only took so long.

So she decided to clean.

Hannibal worked at the dining table, the screen of his Macbook reflected in his glasses. Several notebooks and pens were spread around his space. He looked over his glasses to watch Clarice scrub the kitchen counters and stove top.

“It is easy to be bored when you’re intelligent, isn’t it?”

She continued without pause. “I don’t like feeling useless.”

“You’re a strange one, Clarice.”

She paused now. She looked back to him, but he was working again. Operatic music began playing from his laptop, but she did not know enough to identify it.

He pointed her to a duster when she asked. She began in her room, taking light layers of dust off of books like _The Divine Comedy_ and _The Collected Poems of John Donne._ As she went down the bookcase, she saw titles in French, Italian, Russian. Did he actually read them, or were they trophies?

Dulce took an interest in what she was doing. She lied on her belly, her tail gently swaying from side to side every time she saw Clarice move. Clarice walked over and rubbed her ears. Dulce licked the inside of her wrist.

Hannibal’s music was loud. A soprano reverberated in the drywall.

Clarice looked to the closed door across from her. She stood on the balls of her feet and began walking to it. When she peered into the living room, Hannibal’s head did not move. She continued, breathing steadily through her nose.

She gingerly and gradually turned the doorknob. When it loosened for her, she pushed the door with the same exacting caution. The music was blaring, but the squeaking of a door hinge was an unmistakable sound. 

It was silent. She kept on the very tips of her feet and stepped inside.

Clarice was accustomed to being quiet. When she was a child, she would open her mother’s closet while her mother was in another room. There she would take her father’s deputy sheriff cap and follow the stitching with her fingers before placing it on her head. The rim always fell over her eyes, so she could not get a good look at herself in the mirror. Her mother never caught her. 

The room was fairly bare, with tasteful Egyptian cotton sheets and latte-colored walls. Nothing hung on the walls except for a wooden crucifix by the right side of the bed.

She glanced to the hallway. Dulce had moved on. 

Keeping her breath composed, she opened the closet. It was smaller than a closet that would normally become Hannibal Lecter. At one pass she had no question of which side belonged to Will. Hannibal’s resources had diminished, but his fashion sense had not. 

There was a gray safe on the top shelf. She could only assume it contained an array of forged documents.   
She lowered herself to her knees. On the floor was a good number of shoes. Leather shoes, athletic shoes, work boots. More shoes than she had ever owned.

In the back corner was a wooden box. She picked it up, delicately, and placed it in her lap. Opera continued to resonate from room to room.

The box itself was beautiful. It appeared and smelled aged. The exterior was hand carved in some sort of Slavic design, with paisley and rooster engravings. She lifted the lid to reveal a stack of photos.

The first photo was of Hannibal and Will. Will’s facial scar told her the photo was recent. They were well-dressed and smiling. Hannibal’s arm curled around Will’s shoulders.

A quick review of all the photos divulged that none of them belonged to Will. She was not exactly surprised.

The next photo, black and white, displayed a young Hannibal on a Parisian balcony. He was even thinner then, a fact that was exaggerated by the tight black sweater he wore. He leaned against the iron railing, profile turned to overlook the city scape. His hair was slicked back in a pompadour style, and a thin cigarette dangled from between his lips. His feet were gracefully pointed.

Clarice could see the sentiment behind this scene. She saw two paths before that young man: an artist, and a killer. Repression and freedom.

She moved on. Again she saw a young Hannibal, a boy. His face was framed by the bowl haircut ubiquitous in childhood. Sitting behind him was an Asian woman, her hair feathered and smile modest. An Asian girl, about six, sat next to her. On the ground next to Hannibal was another girl, also about six. Her eyes were a bright green and freckles touched her cheeks. She shared Hannibal’s faint brows and high cheekbones.

A chair leg scratched against the floor in the living room. Clarice was cautious to place the photos back in order as quickly as she could. Before she left, she surveyed the room. It was if she had never entered. 

***

She asked Hannibal for a pen and paper. He gave her a marker, explaining he may trust her with a pen in the future. She thanked him. 

In her room, she wrote: Asian woman, Asian girl, European girl (same age). She folded the paper and tucked it under her mattress.

***

In the evening, Hannibal and Clarice were alone.

It was Friday, and the marina was busier on weekends. Will would be working late.

He wrapped a knuckle against her door. She set down her copy of _Julius Caesar_ and sat up in the bed. 

“What is your favorite food, Clarice?”

She looked to the ceiling for a moment. 

“Honestly, my answer might not be to your...refined palette.”

“That’s perfectly alright.”

She smiled, softly. “My dad made the best mac’n’cheese when my mama wasn’t home. It was just Kraft with extra cheese and sliced cheese dogs, but I loved it. I still love it. I make it when I’m having a bad day.”

Hannibal moved the corners of his mouth side to side as he thought. 

“I could do a carbonara with bacon. Simple, but delicious.”

“I’m sure it will be.” 

She joined him in the kitchen. They helped themselves to a bottle of pinot grigio. She grated Parmesan while Hannibal sliced onions.

“Are your parents alive?”

She exhaled sharply, as if she had been punched under the ribcage. Then she was ashamed. She had given him the exact reaction he wanted.

“My mother is. We’re not close.”

“And your father?”

“He was murdered.”

The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board stopped. He looked to her, one eyebrow high.

“How?”

“On the job. He was a sheriff’s deputy who responded to a robbery at a convenience store.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten.”

She watched him return to chopping, but his motions were sluggish. Through his white shirt, she could see the muscles in his shoulders stiffen. Interesting. She took a step closer to him.

“How about your parents, Dr. Lecter?”

A brown eye appeared over his shoulder. The rest of his body followed the turn. He and Clarice stood directly across from one another. He rested his palms on the kitchen island, while Clarice’s back was firmly against the counter. She quickly took notice of the front door to assess for obstacles. 

“You have been frank, and cordial. By doing so you have made the past days cleaner than anticipated. I suppose we will all get along better the more comfortable we are with one another. If you answer my inquiries, I will answer yours. Quid pro quo.”

She nodded. “Sounds fair to me.”

“My parents died in a car accident when I was ten. My mother died at the scene, my father died in the hospital a day later.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t say that. Don’t you find that response infuriating?”

“I do, you’re right. What happened after that?”

“You first.”

“I have three siblings. One of them has a learning disability. My mother worked as a waitress at a diner and she couldn’t afford all of us.”

“So you were the one to go.”

“Yes, I was the oldest. I went to live with my aunt and uncle in Montana, and foster care after that. Your turn, Dr. Lecter.” She finished her wine and poured herself another glass. She filled his glass as well.

“I spent a year in an orphanage, waiting on my uncle Robertas to come from Paris. He and his wife Murasaki adopted us.”

_Us._ They held eye contact while each of them brought the wine to their lips. Hannibal broke first and returned to the cutting board. Clarice followed suit.

The smell of crisping bacon soon wafted across the kitchen. Dulce walked into the room, ready for her scraps. She was given a sizable bacon slice before being shooed away.

They joined at the table. Clarice waited, hands folded, until Hannibal sat completely. He noticed and gestured toward her plate. “Please.”

She took the first bite, followed quickly by another. 

“How does it compare to your father’s?”

“Just as good. Thank you for making it.”

The only sounds for several minutes were the sounds of them chewing and swallowing. Hannibal leaned forward on his elbows.

“What is your worst memory?”

She moved her eyes to the plate in front of her. Her appetite began to fail. 

“Quid pro quo? Do you promise?”

He kept his eyes fixed to her face. “I promise.”

She started another glass and kept it close to her mouth. “When I was ten, I lived on my aunt and uncle’s sheep farm in Montana, as I told you. They taught me how to ride. I became attached to one of the horses--”

“What was her name?”

“I called her Hannah, but they didn’t call her anything.”

He nodded. “Because she was a slaughter horse.”

“Yes. One day my uncle told me to enjoy riding her while it lasted.”

“So you ran away with her.”

“Exactly. I woke up early in the morning, before the sun was up.”

“What woke you? You were homeschooled, I assume.”

“I was.”

“How did you wake?”

She opened and closed her mouth a few times before finally speaking. 

“The lambs were screaming.”

“They were slaughtering the spring lambs.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“I put on my favorite sweater and went out to the stalls. It was very dark, the light bulbs didn’t work that well. She couldn’t really see me and was scared. I held out my hand and blew on her nose until she realized it was me.”

“Did you saddle her?”

“No. Just a rope hackamore, that was it.”

“Did you try to save the lambs?”

“Yes. We stopped by their pen. I opened it and they...they just stood there.” She kept her head down so he could not see the tears in her eyes. “I yelled at them to run, and they _just wouldn’t run._ ” 

“What then?”

“I grabbed the first lamb in line and climbed on top of Hannah. We rode for a while and walked when she got tired. We made it to Bozeman. The sheriff had a dude ranch there, and I tried to get him to take her.”

“And he tracked down your uncle.”

“Yes.”

“Did your uncle hit you after he picked you up?”

“Of course he did.”

“And off to foster care you went, and the lamb and the horse were slaughtered anyway.”

“The sheriff actually did keep Hannah. I’m sure the lamb was killed, though.”

“The lambs keep you up at night, don’t they?”

“Often.”

“Do you think, Clarice, that by stopping me, you could stop the lambs?”

“Maybe.”

He finished his plate and leaned back. He may have had tears in his eyes, but they were so transient it was difficult to tell.

“I had a sister, six years my junior. She was quite young when our parents died. I looked after her in the orphanage in Vilnius. After a year we were officially adopted by my uncle Robertas. He and Murasaki moved to my ancestral home from Paris. Murasaki’s niece, Chiyoh, came to live with us after her own father died. She was Mischa’s age.” 

His words were deliberate, the pauses between his sentences significant. Clarice did her best to breathe quietly. 

“Robertas traveled to Paris frequently, and was planning on moving us all there. Before one of his trips, when I was fifteen, it was agreed by all parties that I was old enough to look after the children, so Murasaki went with him. Mischa loved to play by herself outside; she especially liked the garden where Murasaki grew our vegetables. But one evening, she did not come when I called for dinner. I called and called, as did Chiyoh, but we could not find her.”

Clarice saw the photograph in her mind. The young Asian girl and the freckled girl with the green eyes. Chiyoh and Mischa.

“Chiyoh was only nine, and I did not want to lose her too. I asked that she stay behind should Mischa come home. I went to the woods. My family’s estate was old and large, and the forest was thick. I took a knife with me. Feral dogs were not an uncommon sight. I walked and walked, until I heard noises in the brush. The noises were so wild I thought for sure it was a dog, or a boar. When I approached I saw a man, if you could call him that. He was skeletal, his face covered in blood. He was bent over, eating what I thought was an animal carcass.” 

“Oh, God.”

“I froze, for a long time. He turned his face to me. Blood and flesh dripped down from his mouth. He let out a horrible, guttural noise. He laughed and kept asking me a question in Russian.” He stopped, his voice growing raspy. He had a drink.

Clarice couldn’t help herself. “What was he asking?”

“‘Do you like girls?’”

The wind escaped her lungs for the second time that evening. She had made a career out of finding the right words to say, but nothing was comparable to this.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Her accent was strong.

Hannibal left the table, taking their plates with him. She had so many questions. What happened to the man? Mischa’s body? Why was this not all over the news? 

But Hannibal’s prolonged rinsing of the dishes told her he was done. She would have to wait.


	13. Take this Waltz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics and chapter title refer to Leonard Cohen's "Take this Waltz." RIP. Some dialogue taken from The Silence of the Lambs. Thank you all for reading.

**Chapter Twelve**

 

“What’s wrong with you?”

Hannibal looked into her eyes. The night was unseasonably cool and they had a humble fire going. The flames bounced brilliantly off her eyes' blue color. The wine had started to stoop her posture. She was outstretched on the loveseat across from his chair. 

“You were trained in therapeutic communication, as I was. You know the questions you’re supposed to ask: what happened to you, what is concerning you, is there anything you could change.”

“You’re not interested in answering those questions.”

The wine started to dull him as well. He had not been drunk in a long time. The possibility that he might say too much was both disquieting and exciting.

“Dr. Chilton and Dr. Bloom would tell you I need to be the smartest man in the room. Have you heard that?”

“Yes. ‘All sociopaths are narcissists.’”

“Do you believe that?”

“About sociopaths. I’m not sure you are one, though.”

“I have a streak of vanity, absolutely. I’m just willing to embrace what most people pretend not to have. But what is wrong with me...I am inclined to being dramatic.”

She flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “I can’t say that about myself. I’m so careful.”

“I’ve noticed. So, what is wrong with you?”

She considered her answer a while. “I think I might need to be the smartest man in the room.”

He surveyed her for a moment, his eyes digging into every wrinkle and spot on her face. She momentarily squirmed out from under his stare before deciding to face him. He could smell anxiety, but he could not see it on her anymore. Her face was a mask.

She made him so curious, this brave, slight woman. What made her _tick?_

“You know what I see when I look at you?” His tone was mild, but there was the faintest undercurrent of nastiness. “A rube. A well-scrubbed, hustling rube with a little taste. You spent a lot of time in backseats with boys, didn’t you, Clarice? All the while dreaming of getting out, getting anywhere, getting all the way to the FBI. Maybe then you could escape the knowledge that, underneath all your ambition, you were poor white trash.”

Her lip quivered, but she regained her composure quickly. She did not sit up, nor did she blush. She simply turned her head to see him.

“You see a lot, Dr. Lecter, I won’t deny that. Since we’re sharing first impressions, I'm going to tell you what I see. You’re afraid to point that high-powered perception at yourself. Not because you’re scared of the grief or the horror. You’re scared that you might be totally _predictable._ How boring it would be for your sister’s murder and cannibalization to have anything to do with your own killings and cannibalism.”

To the average person, Hannibal’s affect would have appeared flat. But Clarice had interviewed a lot of people and she saw clues well. There was the briefest moment of anger in his eyes, followed by surprise in the movement of his eyebrows.

Then the tops of his cheeks rose in a wide smile. 

The doorknob turned and Will walked in. Dulce ran over to him and jumped, wrapping her front legs around his hips. 

He reviewed the scene and frowned. “You two look cozy.”

There was no warm dinner out for him. Hannibal took notice and offered to prepare something. Will said no and went to the bedroom. Hannibal stood to follow. 

“You should go wash your face, Clarice.” 

She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. 

 

***

Will was brushing his teeth. Again, Hannibal offered to feed him.

“I’m not pissed off about the dinner, Hannibal.”

Hannibal sat on their bed. Dulce did her best to curl up in his lap.

Will rinsed out his mouth and leaned against the door frame. He pressed his lips together tightly.

“Clarice is an attractive woman, isn’t she?”

Hannibal knit his eyebrows together. “She has a lovely face, yes.”

“‘Lovely face.’ You brought her in here when she was unconscious. You must have noticed her body. You felt it while carrying her, after all.”

Hannibal did not blink. “Will. I’m married to you.”

“Right, and married men are never attracted to other people.”

“She’s half my age.”

“And a woman.”

“Why does that matter to you? You are the one who was previously married to a woman, if I recall. Be mindful of projection, Will.”

Will shook his head and began undressing. Hannibal approached him from behind and curled himself around Will’s bare torso.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want her _gone._ ” 

“I have--”

“I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re plotting. You asked what I want. I want her out within a week.”

Hannibal detached himself from his husband and took a step back. There was a pause, an unbearable pause.

“Okay, Will. A week.”

 

***

On Sunday morning, Clarice found her door locked. She knocked with no response. She wanted to wait, afraid to push her limits. Her bladder, however, had other plans. She knocked louder.

The door clicked open to reveal Will’s face. Clarice was puzzled.

“Where is Dr. Lecter?”

“He goes to Mass on Sundays.”

She remembered the crucifix in their bedroom. “I didn’t take him for a religious man.”

“He is, in his way.”

After her bathroom routine, Clarice dressed in jeans and an oversized coral tank top. She entered the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot. Will was watching soccer. 

_We will all get along better the more comfortable we are with one another._

She joined him in front of the television. He ignored her for several minutes before muting the screen without notice. He turned to her. In him she saw the aggressive posturing she had seen the paranoid: shoulders down, chest out, the whites of his eyes fully visible.

“Hannibal may not see what is happening, but I do. You’re smart. You’re trained in psychology and law enforcement. You know what to do when you’re kidnapped. And you understand him. You’re not afraid of him, and he likes that. He cooks for you, you stay up late drinking wine together. You have spent a lifetime getting men on your side, haven’t you? It may be working on him, but it’s not going to work on me. You don’t have much time left.”

Clarice began chewing her lip as her cheeks flushed a bright pink. Anger and a profound fear hummed in her blood. But what burned most was Will’s thinly veiled accusation of seduction. Her nostrils flared. She forced herself to look at him. 

“Imagine my surprise when I came here. I didn’t know what to make of you before, nobody did. But I thought, he was an officer of the law. Dr. Lecter must have brainwashed him, he has that ability. But you’re not brainwashed. Not only are you here of your own will, you are totally cognizant. You know what is happening, what he’s done, what _you’ve_ done. And beyond that, you love him. You’re _in_ love with him.”

Will froze. 

Clarice laughed a strained, harsh laugh.

“What? I’m not an idiot. You live together. And the walls are thin. You don’t think I hear what goes on in there?”

Will’s cheeks reddened. A look of fury and embarrassment came over his face. Clarice knew it would be unsound to continue, but her temper had her and she couldn’t stop. 

“It sounds like he’s good. He must be. You left your _wife and child_ for him. You know, I interviewed Molly once, off the record. She’s sure you’re a hero. You lied to her from the moment you met. Her version of your relationship with him is very different than everyone else’s. Did you marry her just to convince yourself you weren’t hopelessly in love with Hannibal Lecter?”

Will snapped and grabbed her wrist. When he spoke to her through his clenched jaw, his Southern accent made a rare appearance. “Don’t talk about shit you don’t know.”

She pulled away from him and clutched her wrist to her chest. “She’s better off not being married to a sadist.”

“I’m not a sadist.” His voice was hoarse.

“Masochism to the extent it hurts others is sadism.”

Will’s entire face was red. Veins protruded from his neck and along his forehead. When he spoke, he bared his teeth.

“I’m not going to kill you. Hannibal put me through this, he can end it. He has a week. You’re young and healthy, so he’ll probably take most of your organs and leave you a hollow, discarded peel. Enjoy the last days of your life.”

He whistled for Dulce and placed her in a harness. Clarice remained in her seat, staring daggers into the floor.

“I’m going to the beach. Go to your room.”

Clarice obeyed, wordlessly. Will followed closely behind with the key. Before he locked her in, he gave her a strip of paper from his pocket.

“My boss and his wife are coming over for dinner tonight. Hannibal wants you present. You’re my cousin; the information you need to remember is on that paper. He’s picking up a dress for you to wear on his way home. I already told them you have a history of being dramatic, in case you make a scene.”

Clarice flattened the paper and frowned as she read. “Why would he--?”

“He likes his performances. I’m not going to fight him on it. He only has so long to play with you.”

He shut the door. Clarice moved to her bed. _Julius Caesar_ was open to the same page it had been for two days. She hadn’t made any progress.

Thus far, she had avoided tears. The gravity of her situation meant that she was always planning. With planning came hope.

She knew before boarding her flight that, if Hannibal Lecter was in Buenos Aires, she might die. She had not anticipated Will Graham joining in. She had not anticipated Will Graham at all.

That oversight was the result of naivete, she knew, and it had killed her. 

She let herself cry. Her chest heaved with sobs, though she swallowed the sounds. She choked on the air and her saliva. Tears dotted her legs. 

Hannibal found her in the same position an hour later. He entered her room, dress and shoes in hand, and set them on the bed. He sat next to her. 

“Will had some words with you.”

She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “Yeah, yeah he did. I had words with him too.”

“You don’t have to hide your tears from me.”

She could not bear to look at him. She knew that if she did, she might lose all control.

“I’m not strong enough.” Her voice was barely audible, defeated. It might have been the saddest thing Hannibal had ever heard. He kept silent, allowing her to go on.

“That girl, Cassie Boyle. What did you do with her lungs?”

He swallowed. “I fried them with onions and parsley.”

“She was just six weeks shy of her seventeenth birthday. Her lungs...she was still breathing when you took them. I’m not strong enough to wait around, wondering when you are going to butcher me. I can confront death, but I’m not strong enough to not know.”

The tears came again, and this time they came too rapidly and harshly for her to abate them. Hannibal snaked his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to his chest. The embrace felt illicit but consoling. No one had held her while she cried before, and it was more comfortable than she thought it would be. 

“I’m not going to ‘butcher’ you, Clarice. I cannot, at this point, predict the end of your life anymore than you can. But I will not make you suffer. You can trust me on that.”

The crying ceased. She pulled her face away from his chest, but his arms remained around her.

“How can I trust you, after everything you’ve done?”

“I will not butcher you, Clarice, because I like you.” 

Her face was now across from his, her expression frozen with shock. He lifted her chin with his knuckle and smiled at her.

“Will told you about dinner, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I like to entertain, as I told you, and I hated the idea of you being locked away in your room while we enjoyed ourselves. I approximated your size the best I could for the dress and shoes. Have you memorized your story?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Good girl. I will leave you to it, as I need to prepare myself. Do you feel better?”

“A little.”

He gave her a pat on the head, like a kindly uncle to a child. It did not feel patronizing, and in the end she was grateful for his attention. 

 

***

Clarice washed her face thoroughly to erase the traces of sadness. She then applied her makeup tediously, covering up every splotch and scratch. She had a feeling that she was auditioning for something, maybe the continuation of her life, so she was going to perform perfectly. 

Her dress was a simple black piece that accentuated her best features. It was tight and strapless on top, but flowed down in an A-line structure. There was no doubt that Hannibal knew clothes perhaps as well as he knew food.

They held to the traditional Argentine schedule by starting the festivities at 2100. Will’s boss was named Mateo, and his wife Sofia. Mateo was a rotund, joyful man. Sofia exuded sophistication and intimidated Clarice with her dark eyes and pearls. She gasped when she was introduced to Clarice, under the name Jennifer. 

“Look at that red hair! I am so jealous.”

The first course was bruschetta with prosciutto, tomato, and mozzarella di bufala. Pinot noir flowed freely from glass to glass. Clarice took a seat next to Will. When he cast her a confused glance, she spoke under her breath: “We’re cousins, remember?”

The four of them were at the table without Hannibal as he completed the main course. He refused assistance.

Mateo topped off everyone’s glass while sporting a large smile. “It makes me so happy to meet you, Jennifer.” His English was heavily accented but very good. “You know, my father has owned the shop at the marina for forty years, and I will be getting it when he dies. We don’t hire outside the family. But when this guy--,” he gestured to Will, “arrived asking for a job, how could I say no? He looked so tired, but he really wanted to work. He said that he was starting a new life and all he knew was boats. Well, that’s all I know too.”

He laughed a giant, great, boisterous laugh that made Clarice smile. She looked to Will. He was smiling too.

Hannibal brought them an obscene bowl of pasta. Innumerable clams dotted the spaghetti, their mouths ready and steaming.

Sofia clapped. “ _Hermosa_ , Dmitri, _hermosa!_ ”

He gave her a modest bow. “You are too kind.”

When he took his seat at the head of the table, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist with affection. “I’m so grateful for this man. When they go on about their boats, we can talk fashion.”

Both Mateo and Will chuckled. Plates were passed around for pasta.

Mateo wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Delicious as usual, Dmitri! It is such a shame my father cannot enjoy this.” He turned to Clarice. “Jennifer, my father is a good man, but he is an old man. He is--how do you say it?--inflexible. He does not know about Daniel’s husband. Myself, I say, who cares if you sleep with men or women? It doesn’t affect me.”

Sofia gave her husband a gentle slap on the arm. “Mateo!”

Clarice had the desperate urge to leave with them. It was all she could do to not beg for it. _I would clean your house for free, watch your kids. Please take me._

He brushed her off and continued to look in Clarice’s direction. “That is why I am so happy to meet you. I know not all family members understand what Dmitri and Daniel do, and it has been very hard on them to be alone in a new country.”

She nodded. “I’m like you; I don’t think other people’s relationships are my business. But we’re from a part of America where a lot of people don’t approve of gay marriage. It breaks my heart because basically everyone disowned Daniel except for me.” She reached over and clasped Will’s hand. He reluctantly squeezed back.

Hannibal excused himself and set up music from the living room. _Swan Lake_ began in the background, just loud enough to provide ambiance.

“Jennifer has been a bright spot in our lives, certainly, but I like to focus on the future, not the past.”

Sofia rose her glass. “I agree. To the future.”

They all clinked glasses and drank. The conversation eventually split. Mateo and Will talked about work, Sofia and Hannibal about wine and style. Clarice fit herself in when appropriate, but otherwise she kept her head down and ate her weight in clams.

After salad came dulce de leche and espresso. Clarice's fear of breaking down at the dinner table prevented her from partaking too much, but everyone else was quite drunk. Will walked over to the computer in the living room and changed the music to Leonard Cohen’s album _I’m Your Man._ She watched, sipping her espresso, as the others sang and swayed to the music. Mateo offered his hand to his wife, and together they danced in small, gentle circles. 

Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will’s waist and began moving back and forth, encouraging him to dance. Will tried to pull away at first, but acquiesced to the rhythm. He placed one hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, another on his waist. 

_Oh, I want you, I want you, I want you_  
_On a chair with a dead magazine_  
_In the cave at the tip of the lily_  
_In some hallway where love's never been_

Sofia caught Clarice’s lack of participation and approached her.

“Are you married, Jennifer?”

“No. I’m married to my work.”

Sofia shook her head. “Oh, that is no good for your heart. A job cannot love you back. Mateo drives me crazy sometimes, but this life we have together, our children, it is all so special. I wouldn’t trade it for all the money in the world.”

Sofia turned her head to watch Hannibal and Will. They continued to lean into one another. Hannibal whispered something into Will’s ear. Will laughed. 

“See? Look at them. Have you seen a happier couple? They lost so much, but they love each other, and that is enough.”

Clarice stared at the black particles in her espresso cup. She felt terribly numb. 

Sofia touched her shoulder, causing her to jump. Sofia pulled her hand back.

“I’m sorry. Mateo always tells me I say too much.”

“No, it’s fine. Honestly you’re right.”

Clarice returned her gaze to the men before her. They had not taken their eyes off one another.

_This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz_  
_With its very own breath of brandy and Death_  
_Dragging its tail in the sea..._


	14. Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence and strong language.

**Chapter Thirteen**

_"You'd look nice in a grave_  
_I smile at the moon, death is on my face_  
_And if you wait too long_  
_Then you'll never see the dawn again._

_My skull is full of sunken ships_  
_My heart's a prisoner to my ribs_  
_We're flesh and bone when we're all alone_  
_But together, forever, we'll live."_ \--"Werewolf Heart," Dead Man's Bones

The next morning was very still. Clarice woke before either of the men and spent the quiet debating overdosing on her Xanax.

She wasn’t sure she had enough to kill herself properly. She rarely used it, and as a result she received two week refills. Would fifteen pills send her off to permanent sleep, or destroy her liver and leave her in a slow, agonizing end? She resolved that she was not desperate enough to find out. Not yet, at least.

Why had Hannibal not taken the medication from her, if he wanted her alive so badly? Maybe he wanted to see what she would do. Maybe he knew she would reach this conclusion.

She heard sniffing. Dulce’s white and pink nails poked out from under her door. Voices came from the kitchen. Both Hannibal and Will were up. 

She didn’t know what, if anything, she had to offer Will. He didn’t want an experiment, companionship, or sex. She was only a blemish on his otherwise stable life. But what did he expect, when he hitched his wagon to Hannibal Lecter?

Months ago she emailed Freddie Lounds as part of her research. She did not use her real name and made no mention of her FBI affiliation. She posed as an amateur Lecter hobbyist, curious about his relationship with Will Graham. She also offered to buy a poster of Lecter’s mugshot.

Lounds’ reply, which she disregarded at first but now burned in her brain, was: 

_I knew, long before anyone else, that Lecter and Graham were sleeping together. It was obvious when I was around the both of them and even more obvious when I saw them separately. If they weren’t actually doing it yet, they wanted to._

_How anyone can deny that now is mind numbing to me. Lecter killed Abigail Hobbs and stabbed Graham in the stomach, and Graham went back to him? A normal person would go into hiding. But abused lovers return to their spouses all the time._

_Then Lecter and Graham worked on a case together, Graham’s family almost died, and Dolarhyde’s body was found completely torn apart with no trace of either of them? Hmm…_

Clarice placed a pillow over her head as she felt the room around her begin to spin. The world was so much more complicated than she even knew. 

Her door was opened. When she exited her room, she saw Hannibal in the kitchen. He was wearing pajama pants and nothing else. She kept her eyes away from him. 

He handed her a cup of coffee. “When I emigrated to America to attend Johns Hopkins, I lived with a roommate. He was clearly uncomfortable around me, and he moved out after only two months. When I told my classmates about the situation, they informed me that being nude around acquaintances was not considered acceptable. I came to learn that nudity and intimacy are interchangeable for Americans.”

She turned her head to look around the apartment. “Where is Will?”

“At the market picking up a few items. You did well last night, Clarice.”

“Thank you.”

He went to his bedroom and returned wearing a lightweight jacket. “I have something that I think you’ll like.”

She followed him out the front door and up the main stairs of the apartment building. She realized it was the first time she had been outside since the day after her capture eight days ago. Dulce loyally brought up the rear, her white-tipped tail wagging with enthusiasm. 

Their destination was the rooftop terrace. It had a view of the water hidden in between billboards and concrete towers. She wished she could be smell the ocean from here.

Hannibal pulled a pack of Marlboro Lights from his pants pocket and offered her one. She gave him a sly grin. “I thought you were all about health?”

“What is life without the occasional vice?”

She took one and lit it with the lighter he provided. “Funny, what you consider a vice.”

They both stood by the edge and watched skinny, transparent clouds pass over the Atlantic before turning to one another. Hannibal had shaven recently, but a faint trail of gray still curved around his muzzle. Clarice’s hair was unkempt and quite red in the sunlight. 

“Have you killed since Dolarhyde?”

He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the communal ashtray. Smoke from his pursed lips joined with the wind. 

“Just once.”

“Why did you do it?”

“He called us faggots.”

“So he deserved to die.”

“‘Deserved to die’ is such a strange term, isn’t it? After all, God does not kill based on performance. He is more capricious than that. Good mothers and fathers are taken in accidents all the time, brain tumors given to children. Death has nothing to do with being deserving.” 

“That’s not the God I was raised with.”

“My God is mostly an Old Testament God. Vengeful, fickle, and fiery, like us.”

She flicked ashes off the end of her cigarette. “Did you eat him?”

“His kidney.”

“Did Will?”

“No.”

“But he approved of you eating it.”

“Will has not had qualms about my meals in some time.”

Her cigarette joined Hannibal’s in the ashtray. “It must be nice to have someone who accepts you so wholeheartedly.” 

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s fucked up is what it is.”

Hannibal ran his fingers through his hair as he gazed at the horizon. “You have a rigid sense of morality, Clarice. If the world was as you see it, everyone would die of old age and love would be earned, not given.”

She spotted a fat green caterpillar on the concrete. It moved in circles, seemingly chasing its tail. She gently picked it up and placed it in a potted plant. Hannibal watched her diligently as she did so.

Having explored the terrace’s parameter, Dulce placed herself between the two of them. She bumped Clarice’s hand with her snout.

Hannibal smiled. “She likes you.”

Clarice knelt down and playfully patted the dog’s belly. “She’s my best friend.”

“I was like you, once. Committed to being a lone wolf, having absolute control. The isolation grows harder to tolerate as you age.”

“Everyone is suddenly concerned about me dying alone. It’s a non-issue at this point.” 

“Your loneliness is palpable. It’s difficult not to notice.”

A hot flush started at her temples and ran through the length of her body. She decided that, in the dwindling hours of her life, she cared less about being careful. “Your concern for my emotional well-being is confusing. Obviously I can’t do anything about it now.”

“It may be helpful for you to keep in mind that every family loves differently.”

That did not clarify matters, but she suddenly felt exhausted and wanted to return to sleep. Hannibal told truths in his idiosyncratic way, but never explained them until he was ready. She was learning, little by little, to give in.

***

She took a pill and felt comfortably warm and drowsy. Sleep took her quickly. While she occasionally felt too hot or began rolling off her twin-sized bed, sleep always returned to coddle her. She did not hear lambs or see her father’s blood-stained uniform soaking in the sink. All was peaceful. 

It was early evening when a knock came on her door. She was only vaguely aware of the figure entering her room. It could be Satan himself for all she cared.

Will nudged her shoulder. “Clarice?”

She peered at him through weary, narrowed eyes. Her stare was relentless.

“Hannibal and I are going to a bar we enjoy in a couple hours. It’s right by the beach and has live music, usually jazz. Would you like to join us?”

Her body rolled away from him. “I fucking hate jazz.”

He was sitting on her bed now, just inches away from her. “I do too, but wouldn’t you like to see more of the city? Get some fresh air?”

She rolled towards him now, her eyes hard and cold. She searched for something, anything, that would give away Will’s game. His face was affable, even kind. Distrust coursed through her veins. Will had an exceptional ability to portray what was wanted, rather than what he was feeling himself.

_Suddenly you tolerate me. What did he say to you?_

But nothing stirred Clarice like an unanswered question. 

“When will you be leaving?”

“Eight. It’s almost seven now.”

“Sounds good, thanks. I’ll get up.”

***

Will and Hannibal waited for her in the living room. They were on the loveseat together, Will’s hand holding a tight grip on Hannibal’s knee.

“You’re nervous.”

Will sighed and shifted in his seat, attempting to get comfortable. “I have a lot to be nervous about.”

“We will figure it out.”

“I still think she’s dangerous, Hannibal.”

“Perhaps so, but not too wild to be tamed.”

Clarice entered the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She appeared strangely unlike herself, with her eyeliner thick and dark and denim shorts high. 

Will’s fingers trembled against Hannibal’s thigh. “Are you ready?”

They walked to the bar, with Clarice bringing up the rear. Will glanced back at her frequently. Each time he did so she gave him a sour, suspicious face.

The bar was crowded for a Monday night and the music was raucous. It pierced through Clarice’s fogged mind, sending a shot of pain behind her eyes. They each started with a glass of wine and grabbed the nearest table that could accommodate them.

Hannibal and Will were tender with one another. She watched as they exchanged glimpses, brushed fingers and knees. They were a world unto themselves, separate from her, the music, the crowd. They seemed to be in the midst of celebration, and that spooked her.

She excused herself and went to order something harder, something fitting death. What would make an appropriate departure toast?

When she reached the bar she heard a man speaking briskly and aggressively. She followed his voice and found him leaning into a woman’s face. Her Spanish was decent enough to catch the conversation.

“Bitch, I was just trying to buy you a drink.”

The woman began to get out of her seat. The man grabbed her forearm.

“Let me go!”

“Hey, hey, I just want to talk.”

Clarice stepped between them. Startled, the man lost his grip. Clarice took a breath before summoning her deepest law enforcement voice. 

“Hey, _cabrón_ , she said no. Fuck off.”

He slammed down his glass. “You fuck off with that Mexican Spanish, cunt.”

The woman placed a handful of bills on the bar top and touched Clarice’s back as she made for the door. “Thank you for trying.”

_Thank you for trying. Ouch._

Clarice hadn’t had the opportunity to break someone’s nose in a long time. She enjoyed picturing what this guy, with his shaved head and meaty lips, would look like with blood running down his face. If she could get him to swing first, she would be happy.

Before he could open his mouth, the bartender appeared behind her with a massive man. They isolated the man and began pulling him off the barstool. He swore and kicked before eventually stumbling his way outside. She watched it all happen, ashamed of her impotence.

Adrenaline numbing her, she stood in her spot for some time before drifting back to the table. She was almost sitting before she realized that Hannibal was gone. 

“Where is Dr. Lecter?”

Will’s eyes met hers. “Bathroom.”

His expression was too good. It was calculating, acted.

“You’re lying.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

She turned on her heels and dashed for the door. Once outdoors, the steamy air of Argentine summer night was suffocating. She couldn’t think. 

She looked around in a frenzy. The street was fairly busy, with people walking in and out of storefronts, crossing her path. As she ran the beach came into her vision. She decided that was her best shot.

Once there, she had another choice. She could go left or right. On her left, a couple was spread out on a blanket. On her right, bundles of rocks protruded from the sand and a rickety pier was in the distance. She went right.

In the dark she could not make out every rock, and the sand made running damn near impossible. She kicked off her flats in favor of being barefoot. She fell often and her knees took the damage, receiving multiple blows and cuts as she scrambled. 

She was out of breath when she reached the underneath of the pier. A tall, svelte figure that was undoubtedly Hannibal stood before her. He wore a linen suit, the white of which gave him an ethereal aura as he paced. She saw a round man splayed out on the ground. A terrible wheezing noise came from him as blood, black as the sky above them, gushed from his neck.

“Oh, God.”

She kicked the back of Hannibal’s knee, sending him skidding. She straddled the man’s torso and wrapped her hands around his gaping wound. His chest rose feebly. The wheezing grew to stridor. 

“Oh, God, no, no.”

Hannibal was up again and stood over her like a teacher over a misbehaving student. “He is cut from carotid to carotid. Those arteries are essential sources of oxygen and glucose for the brain. The immense amount of pressure needed to propel blood upwards is now being used to push it out. Nothing can stop the blood loss in time, especially your petite hands.”

She pushed against the wound with more force. The blood, which had been pouring from the spaces between her fingers, now only seeped. He stopped making noises.

“No, no, no.” Tears rolled from her eyes onto what was now surely a body. She pushed until her elbows felt like they were popping out of place. 

“It’s futile, Clarice. He’s done.”

She continued to press and press until Hannibal lifted her from the armpits and dragged her off. She sat, completely rigid, and stared at her stained hands. 

Hannibal stripped to the nude--his linen pants would be see-through when wet--and grabbed the body by its ankles. He began pulling it to the water. “I was going to remove his tongue and leave him, but your prints are on him now.”

High tide was approaching. The water rolled against Hannibal’s calves, then his thighs, then his buttocks. It was brisk and stung his flesh. He felt alive. The corpse was reaching full submersion. 

He watched Clarice at the shore. She was still sitting, sitting and staring. If she was aware of what he was doing, it did not register. She was dissociating. 

The water was up to his chest. With any luck the body would not be found until low tide the next day. By then the skin should be bloated and sloughed off.

He waded back. When he reached the sand, he placed his hands on his hips and breathed in. This evening had not gone as planned, but it was an engaging development. His heart galloped with enjoyment.

After drying off a bit, he dressed. Clarice did not look in his direction. He picked her up by the bicep and placed her hands in the ocean. With only the light of the moon, he could not see her in detail. He decided to be safe and wipe off her face and thighs as well. Artery dissections were effective but messy.

They began walking away from the scene. Hannibal held Clarice’s hand. Will met them at the beach access where Clarice had entered. 

“She’s traumatized,” Hannibal explained.

Will nodded. “First dead body.”

“No, not first.” It was Clarice’s voice. She saw her father’s casket, her mother scrubbing his uniform shirt in the sink. But then the memory was gone, and she went numb again. 

Hannibal and Will locked eyes waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, they continued on.

Avoiding street lamps and crowds, they stuck to the beach. It would take them most of the way to their apartment.

Will held Hannibal’s free hand. “You told me you would stop.”

“I will. Think of tonight as a last hurrah.”

The moon was at its peak. The silver glow guided their path home.


	15. Half

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild sexual content ahead.

**Chapter Fourteen**

Hannibal was slicing jalapeños for an omelette when his cell phone rang. The screen displayed “W.”

“Hello?”

“Morning. Have you seen the news?”

“No, I’ve been working on that Russian textbook all morning.”

“The police think it’s related to organized crime. Apparently he was wrapped up in drugs.”

“Of course he was.”

“She may have saved our asses. If you had taken a piece of him, the dots could have been connected.”

“I will get her gift.”

“Smartass. Has she spoken to you yet?”

“She’s in the bath.”

“Again?”

“You find water soothing, don’t you?”

“She’s never going to agree after last night.”

“You worry too much. Perhaps she will be more suggestible.”

They said their goodbyes. Hannibal put his meal preparation on hold to pour a glass of orange juice. He brought it to the bathroom and knocked his knuckle against the ajar door. “Clarice, I know you are not decent, but--”

“I don’t care.”

He entered and handed her the glass. She extended one arm, keeping the other tightly wrapped around her bent knees. “Thank you.”

“The water must be tepid by now.”

“Still feels nice.”

“Understandable. Many faiths use water as an element of their conversion ceremonies.”

“I’m in a baptism of some kind?”

“I believe so.”

“I would like to argue but I do feel fundamentally _different._ Like I could never be me again.”

“The shock of the moment will pass.”

“The longer I stay here...I can’t tell if you’re completely insane or I’m completely delusional.”

She drank her juice fervently. Color had yet to return to her face. Hannibal was struck by her delicacy. She reminded him of a terrier: larger in her mind than in true physical presence. 

Her eyes were misty, possibly with dread, possibly with fatigue. He placed a caring hand on her shoulder. “Do you believe in fate?”

“Not really.” 

“I do. I often think about how empty my life would have been if I had not been accepted to Johns Hopkins, and thus never moved to Baltimore and met Will. And now you are here with us, as alone and orphaned as we are. Of all the people who could have found us, it was you.”

That line made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. “Hannibal, you’re scaring me.” She had not used his first name before.

“I have an important matter to discuss with you, Clarice. We were going to broach it last night, before you and I were distracted.” 

Her throat felt tight, almost too tight to breathe. 

“If I bring you a robe, will you follow me to the living room? I will make breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“A mimosa, then?”

She closed her eyes, a look of resignation on her face. “Alright, then. Let’s talk.” 

*** 

_Sunday night, after the dinner party_

_December 2018_

After Mateo and Sofia left, Will and Hannibal climbed the stairs to the rooftop. The terrace was vacant. They lied side by side on adjoining chaise lounges. Will pointed out constellations and planets above. Orion and Jupiter. 

He stopped when he noticed Hannibal’s attention drifting away.

“What are you thinking about?”

Hannibal was thankful for the alcohol in their blood.

“I have been pondering something for a while now. There is no easy way to bring it up, so I will speak from the heart and hope you understand me: I want a child.”

Will’s stomach dropping was almost audible. “A child?”

“I was against having children for most of my life, until I met Abigail. I thought my legacy would be my work...my articles, drawings, and cooking. When she came to live with me I saw that it is all meaningless. Ephemeral. Even the titles they have attached to me will fall away. But to bring someone into this world, to teach and set a precedent for subsequent generations...what could be more fulfilling? I come from an ancient family, Will. We survived when the Russians invaded, we stood steadfast when the Russians became the Soviets, we fended off the Nazis. Chiyoh and I are the last ones, and I the only one by blood. To have that end with me seems lamentable.”

When Will said nothing, he spoke again.

“I will turn fifty-four next month, as you know. I am aging. It happens to all of us and we are all surprised by it. It took half a lifetime to find someone I love, but here we are.”

A long silence passed over them. Will brought his palms over his eyes and sighed. 

“I always wanted to be a father, and I’ve had opportunities. So many opportunities...and each one ended, in some way, because of you.”

He could not bring himself to look at Hannibal. 

“I know this is a sensitive subject, as it should be. I will not force it on you. This is a decision we need to make in unison.”

“If I agree with you, have you thought about how? Adoption will place us under a lot of scrutiny. We cannot afford to make any mistakes, especially if we have a child.” 

“I have thought about it. My idea is not necessarily...palatable but, given our situation, it is pragmatic.”

Keeping his eyes to the stars, Will listened as Hannibal detailed his plan. Each detail was more absurd and alluring than the next. As Hannibal breathed the words into his ear, Will pictured Abigail in her hospital bed. He felt a small heartbeat against his own, saw a children’s fishing pool by the front door. He saw a chance, his final chance, to be a good father.

His answer was clear, and knowing that petrified and thrilled him. He turned on his side. He and Hannibal were nose to nose. 

“So,” Hannibal cupped the back of Will’s head, “what do you think?”

“You’ve ruined my life.” Will had said this phrase several times over the years, but four months ago it took on a new meaning. It became a testament to this amorous, destructive force that had blown through his life and unleashed his true potential.

Hannibal began kissing the length of Will’s arm, from fingers to elbow. “There are not enough languages in the world to describe how I feel about you. _Mon amour, amore mio, mi amor, moya lyubof, mano meile…”_

“You can admire me without showing off.”

“You can silence me if you would like.” He pressed his mouth against Will’s. His tongue pushed past Will’s lips. 

Will pulled back. “Not here. We’ll be caught.”

“Let us be caught.” 

He kissed him again. Again, Will hesitated. “You won’t be able to kill again, at least for a while.”

“I can manage that. ‘There are means of influence other than violence.’”

That phrase sent Will to a place from years ago, when the breadth of the Atlantic Ocean was not enough to keep him from Hannibal, and the uncertainty and risk was worth seeing his divine face one last time. 

He draped a leg over Hannibal’s hips and moved his face in closer. Their lips were brushing.

“Let us be caught,” he agreed.

In the sweltering air, under a glittering sky, they undressed one another. Their fingers were gentle, then fierce. Will gazed up at Hannibal, then down on him. Teeth on teeth. Teeth dragging on skin.

Will’s fingertips dug into the broad scar in the middle of Hannibal’s back.

_I wondered if you could see it, too. I wondered if our stars were the same._

*** 

_April 2020  
The Red Bar, Baltimore_

Clarice and Alana grabbed the loneliest table in the bar. Not that the task was difficult. It was shortly past noon. 

Alana had a glass of Chardonnay, Clarice a Budlight. She wasn’t sure she could drink wine anymore.

They both stared out the window, watching people walk dogs and push strollers. Alana took a drink, leaving a ring of red lipstick around the rim. “Who wants to go first?”

Clarice continued to watch the street and laughed hesitantly. “This was a terrible idea.”

Alana blotted her lipstick on a napkin. The bright red hue was taken down to a softer tone. She placed her crossed arms on the table. “I suppose I’ll go. I believe I know the answer to this; in fact, I do know the answer. But I need to hear it from you. Will and Hannibal...are they a couple?”

“Yes. Married.”

“And it’s not an affectation?”

“No. They love each other.”

Alana’s chest rose with a deep breath. “I had known that about Hannibal. But Will…”

“I know it hurts, Alana. But it’s the truth. They live together, they...are affectionate.”

Alana’s mouth twisted in a frown. Clarice immediately regretted her choice of words, but did not know what else to say. 

Alana swirled the wine in its glass. “When I’m honest with myself, I saw it happening. For years. But I always thought Will had more reservations than that. How could someone let themselves abide by what Hannibal does?”

“We all have a darker nature, a side of us that fantasizes about violence, plots murder. Some of us keep it buried deep down. Some of us try to manage it through a hobby, or joining law enforcement.” Clarice smiled with one corner of her mouth. “Will was never able to keep his in check. And when he met Hannibal...I’ve never been in love, Alana, but people say it completes you, right? They complete each other.”

She excused herself to buy a shot of bourbon to go with her beer. Alana wore a look of concern.

“Do you want to tell me what is on your mind?”

Clarice took her shot and leaned forward on the table, her hands unsteady and her eyes intense. “First you have to promise to keep a secret.”

“I have grown accustomed to keeping secrets.”

“I mean it. I know you telling Margot is inevitable, but it needs to stay between the three of us. _Not another soul._ A lot rides on your integrity.”

Alana was frightened, unsure if she wanted to be a participant in what was to come. 

“You can trust me.”

Clarice broke eye contact and looked out the window again. Alana watched the corners of her mouth twitch.

“I didn’t escape. I was let go. I know, more or less, where they are.”

A lump grew in Alana’s throat. “You had the opportunity to turn them in.”

“Yes.”

_Why didn’t you?_ The question raced around in Alana’s mind. She had to believe Clarice had a good reason. A horribly good reason. 

“What did he take from you?”

“It’s not so much what he took...it’s what I gave.” Clarice finished her beer and began picking at the cuticles on her hands. Alana could see they were cracked and raw. She patiently waited as Clarice regained herself.

“I didn’t turn them in because they have a baby now.”

The floor fell out from under them. Alana white-knuckled the bottom of her seat. She hoped the direction of this conversation would change.

“The baby girl...she’s mine, Alana.”

Alana’s cheeks went white. “Clarice--”

“It was all very clinical. I was their surrogate, that was all. And I did alright for the first trimester, believing that. But as the months went by...it was like I realized I had grown attached and had to say goodbye at the same time.” 

“You didn’t want to break up the family.”

Clarice cleared her throat. Tears formed along her lashes. 

“The orphan in him connected with the foster kid in me. He knew that my need for stability and love might prevent me from turning them in. I knew he knew that. And I still let it happen. And the worst part is...I almost didn’t leave at all. They gave me the option of staying. I had to seriously talk myself out of it.”

“This is what Hannibal does. He analyzes people, finds what makes them vulnerable, and exploits it. He’s had forty years of practice. You can’t blame yourself.”

Clarice drained the beer bottle of every last sud. “I blame myself often, but not for hiding them. There was a place for me. Now I feel like I’ve been cut in half.”

Alana pulled her hair back. “Remember that sociopaths pretend a lot more than they genuinely feel.”

“He’s not a sociopath. He loves, he feels empathy. He can just turn it on and off.”

“What would you call him, then?”

“I don’t think that makes him much different than most people.”

“You can’t possibly believe that.”

“I don’t know what I believe in anymore.”

A server came by to inquire about another round. They declined. Alana watched Clarice chew on ice from her water glass. 

“You can stay with Margot and I as long as you need,” was all she could offer.


	16. Two Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating...I've had finals and work and all that jazz. Thank you for your views.

**Chapter Fifteen**

_“Every Night & every Morn_  
_Some to Misery are Born_  
_Every Morn and every Night_  
_Some are Born to sweet delight_  
_Some are Born to sweet delight_  
_Some are Born to Endless Night” -- William Blake, “Auguries of Innocence”_

_December 2018_

“No.”

Hannibal and Clarice were separated by the width of the dining table. His sterling blonde hair was down and fell across his forehead elegantly. He looked casual, approachable. Handsome. 

“We would free you afterwards. No hesitations.”

She breathed out through clenched teeth, making a sound like a hiss. “You’re demanding a lot from me.”

“Not demanding. Asking.”

“You will kill me if I don’t.”

“Most likely, but you have options. You’re a smart girl.”

Water trickled from her wet hair. Hannibal’s black robe was far too loose on her; she had to hold it closed across her chest with one hand. “Of course, the smartest thing to do is stay alive.”

“We are all programmed by evolution to do so.”

She kept her eyes to the floor. When she spoke again, her voice was strained. “I can’t bring your sister back. Nothing can do that.”

His upper lip quivered. “Careful, Clarice. I like you, but compassion can have its limits.”

“Yes, yes it can.”

Hannibal made himself a mimosa and watched and waited. She continued to refuse eye contact. He could see the debate playing out on her face. Morality versus instinct. In this battle, Clarice would take her time.

She pushed her damp bangs aside. “What if I...I can’t do it? I’ve never tried before.”

“We’ll take that into consideration.”

She finally raised her head. Her eyes were narrow and ferocious.

“Please tell me why you want children.” Her words were intentional and syrupy slow as her accent dominated. The syllables were elongated, the consonants less articulated. Hannibal closed his eyes in the middle of her sentence to listen. _Whhhhy yoo whun…_

With his eyes shut, he responded. “Mischa may have something to do with it.”

Clarice smiled at him. It was not a sympathetic smile. “Even Hannibal Lecter has his vulnerabilities.”

“That excites you. You do have the upper hand here, Clarice. Eventually you can walk away from this, if you choose.”

She scoffed. “If I choose? Why would I ever stay?”

“What do you have to go back to?”

Her face dropped. It was a good question. 

“You promise to let me go?”

“Yes.”

“Unhurt? No missing limbs or anything?”

“Aside from any side effects of pregnancy and childbirth, which I understand are numerous. We both understand that. That is why we are giving you this offer. We literally cannot do this without you.”

She nodded warily. “Can I take the day to think about it?”

“Of course.”

She pushed away from the table, clutching her champagne flute tightly against her chest. On her way out of the room, she stopped abruptly and turned back around. Hannibal rose his eyebrows in curiosity. Clarice’s eyes indicated that she was curious too. 

“Why do you like me?”

His glance was steadfastly fixed to her face. “Approval is important to you.”

She took a step in his direction. “I need to know I’m succeeding. I was never good at making friends, or cared about it all that much. But you do. Strange for a man who eats people.”

“Our close cousins, the chimpanzees, develop intense, complicated social relationships. They have also been known to engage in cannibalism. Our drive for companionship is just as genetically imprinted as our hunger.”

“What do _you_ see in me? Why didn’t you kill me on the spot?”

Hannibal gestured for her to sit. She shook her head and stood still. 

“Did your father teach you how to hunt, Clarice? I imagine he did so, considering your upbringing.”

“He did.”

“Mine did as well. He taught all three of us. Mischa ended up in tears every time. Chiyoh was skilled with a gun but had difficulty pulling the trigger on anything that wasn’t fowl. I had to kill the mammals. Were you able to kill the mammals?”

She stared at him for a while before answering. “You think I’m a killer.”

“Not necessarily. I think you were born to obscurity, raised in misfortune, and that made you ruthless.”

She was not displeased by his assessment. “And that’s what interests you.”

“I think the three of us have a lot of similarities.”

Clarice saw that her robe had become slightly undone. She tightened her grip. Hannibal made no indication of noticing. She felt oddly unexposed.

She finished her drink and took a banana from the kitchen island. “I would like to talk to Will before making a decision.”

“We could visit him for lunch.”

She cracked the top of the banana and pulled back each flap, unmasking the pale flesh underneath. “Let’s do that.”

***

Will was surprised to see Hannibal and Clarice on the beach. When he and Hannibal spotted each other, Hannibal unleashed Dulce. She scampered to him and rubbed her head along his knees. 

He waved to catch Mateo’s attention and pointed to them. Mateo nodded and waved back. He stepped off the boat. The two parties walked toward one another, meeting in the middle. 

Hannibal smiled at Will, his teeth bared. He had a sizable lunch box in his right hand. “I brought you lunch.” 

Clarice spread out the blanket she had carried. They each sat, their legs folded, and chose from a selection of cheeses, breads, and sliced meats. No one said much, opting to watch the rollicking ocean instead.

Hannibal hooked Dulce up to her leash. “You two have something to discuss. I will take her for a walk.”

He departed. Both Will and Clarice watched him go. The wind caught his loosely draping button-down. The shirt’s soft pink color highlighted the bronzed nature of his skin.

Clarice ripped off a hunk of baguette and offered some to Will. He took a piece. 

“I take it Hannibal talked to you this morning.”

She nodded and bit into the bread. She swallowed thoroughly before speaking. “Yeah. I’m feeling a bit dizzy.”

“You’ve had a hell of a day.”

Looking over her shoulder, she watched Hannibal roll up his pants and wade into the water.

“Who really wants this to happen?”

“It was his idea. Obviously I’m not opposed.”

“If I’m going to do this…,” she trailed off, seemingly distracted by the waves, “if I’m going to do this, I need to know the baby will be loved and cared for. Neither of you have a great track record with nurturing. I can’t help bring a child into this world if this is part of some experiment, something Hannibal is doing to entertain himself.”

Will cleaned the lenses of his glasses. “You’re in the experiment, Clarice. This is the experiment.”

She lied down, the warm sand kissing her back. It was the first time Will had seen her be anything other than rigid. “I think I understand, then I doubt myself.”

“He needed to test you out, see if you fit.”

“Did you know about this?”

He shook his head. “He asked me a few days ago.”

Her mouth pulled to one side in a sneer. “How can you stand to be with someone so deceitful?”

Will’s gaze went to his partner, who held a stick for the dog to take. He watched the sunlight bounce off Hannibal’s watch. “Hannibal never thinks about one thing. He doesn’t know preoccupation. Topics A through Z are running through his mind at any given time. Maybe he has wanted children for a while...I think so. But maybe the sight of you put the idea in his head. It’s impossible to know; his mind is so vast. He’s like a sporting dog. He’s so smart that he needs tasks to do, or else he gets bored, and boredom breeds destruction.”

“You didn’t really answer my question.”

“Didn’t I? I accept Hannibal’s selfishness and cruelty because he is simply amazing in everything he does. He can turn the gruesome into the divine. And he accepts me. He accepted me before I did.”

That sent a shiver across Clarice’s skin. It was a chilling reminder that she was outgunned.

She propped herself on her elbows and turned to face him. “Could you both commit to a child? Put aside your selfishness?”

“We’re ready for the life we should’ve had in 2014.”

Gulls cawed and the musty smell of the sea swirled around them. Clarice closed her eyes and tilted her head to the sky. The sun was baking her ivory skin.

“I know we didn’t get off on the right foot, but I want to trust you, Will. We’re both poor kids, we both took oaths to protect and serve. That’s not your life now, but I have to believe it counts for something.”

He looked to the sky with her. “You can trust me, Clarice. If you do this.”

Above them the clouds hurried along, desperate for some unknown destination. 

“I can try.”


	17. Wolf and Lamb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your commitment and patience. Sorry for the delay in updates and this relatively short chapter. The next chapter should not take so long. 
> 
> Warning: Cannibal stuff ahead.

**Chapter Sixteen**

_“The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, and the lion shall eat straw like the bullock: and dust shall be the serpent's meat. They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain, saith the LORD.”--Isaiah 65:25_

Will stared into the dark. He had not been sleeping well since Clarice’s arrival. Tonight was especially difficult, as the drumming of his heart was loud and unyielding. His mind was awash in feelings of excitement, trepidation, and uncertainty. 

Hannibal rolled over and whispered into Will’s ear. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, as usual.”

“I’m too nervous to sleep.”

“Me too.” 

Hannibal slid his arm across Will’s chest. “I miss Abigail.”

“Me too,” Will replied.

He listened to the sound of Hannibal’s breath ebbing and flowing. It soothed him, the way that Hannibal was stoic even in the most alarming moments. He realized that he would have this comfort forever, and that knowledge quieted his mind. He weaved his fingers in between Hannibal’s. “I’m struggling to grasp all of this.”

“As hard as it may be for you to believe, I am too.”

“And I’m struggling to determine if this is a good idea.” 

“What are your hesitations?”

“This is happening quickly. Part of me is looking forward to embracing a family after so many false starts, but...after years of hiding myself, I want to feel liberated. I want to travel, act more spontaneously.”

Hannibal lifted his hand from Will’s and ran his fingers through Will’s hair. His curls were starting to reappear.

“We have time. This will not occur overnight.”

Will fell silent, but Hannibal could hear his shallow breathing, the pounding in his chest.

“Do you feel guilty about this life you’ve made with me?”

He sighed and turned on his other side. Though they could not see one another, the gentle brush of breath against cheek told them they were face to face. “Sometimes. I can’t let myself think about it too much.”

“Good. Will Graham, for all intents and purposes, is dead.”

“So is Hannibal Lecter. I want to believe you are committed to this, but you will have to sacrifice comfort, and I have my doubts about your ability to do that.”

“I was prepared to do that before, just as I am prepared now. I love you and want you to be happy. At some point, you have to believe that.”

“I do. God, I do.” Will sounded comforted. 

Just as quickly as the tension arose, it dissipated. Will told Hannibal to turn over. Once Hannibal was facing away from him, he slid his arm under Hannibal’s and placed his palm against his chest. The even, predictable heartbeat thumped against his skin. It was a reminder that Hannibal was made of the same materials he was: iron, oxygen, carbon, and that they were, essentially, one. One could not live without the other. 

***

The air in her room was sweltering. Sweat dewed along her skin and refused to dry. She stripped away layer after layer of clothing until she was nude. As the hour dragged on, even the sheet touching her back became unbearable. She lied on the floor.

The doorknob began clicking without warning. She clambered back in bed and pulled the top sheet up to her chin.

Hannibal entered in a white shirt and chino shorts. He frowned when he saw her. “There is no ventilation in this room.”

“None.”

“We will be at the peak of summer soon. I will make sure to get you a fan.”

“Is Will at work?”

“Yes, though he is coming home early.”

She stared at the seam where the ceiling and the wall met. “And then we’ll get started?”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes, the anxiety warming her further. The pulsations of her temporal arteries were audible. Her thoughts ceased as she could only focus on the heat.

A wet, cooling sensation spread across her forehead. Puzzled, she reached up and felt a damp cloth. When she opened her eyes, Hannibal was sitting on the foot of her bed. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “I’m putting together a surprise for Will. Would you like to help?”

“A surprise?”

“Come. It is in the living room.”

He left her to get dressed. She wore only the thin tank top and yoga shorts she had slept in. As her stay lengthened, she cared less about presenting herself a certain way. They had made their decisions about her. 

The surprise was obvious when she walked into the hallway. Multicolored lights danced along the walls and the apartment was filled with the scent of cinnamon. Hannibal hung silver and gold ornaments on a short false tree. She laughed, unsure of what else to do. “You celebrate Christmas?”

“I don’t usually. I wasn’t raised with Christmas. Will was however, and those are some of his favorite memories. Christmas was the only quality time he had with his father, and his mother before she passed away. Are you fond of it?”

“It never meant much to me. My parents always had to work. We exchanged presents but that was about it.”

“No grandmothers baking or watching holiday movies?”

She joined him in hooking ornaments around the tree’s stems. “Memaw took us to church on Christmas Eve. My father’s parents were drunks and we never saw them. We watched a lot of television, though, that’s true. Why didn’t your family celebrate?” 

“My mother was Italian and a devout Roman Catholic. Christmas was a time for prayer and gratitude, nothing like the garish American day. She did cook a substantial meal, from which I learned a great deal. My father did not identify as a Communist but he shared their suspicion of organized religion and tradition.”

“What an odd couple. How did that happen?”

“Traveling across Europe was not easy when my father was young, but he had money. After finishing his secondary education, he went on a tour of Italy. He met my mother outside of the Baptistery of Saint John in Florence.”

She pictured it as he spoke. A vampiric looking Eastern European man taking a seat next to an Italian girl before a marvelous cathedral. So romantic, so whimsical, so far away from her parents meeting in that dive in Morgantown. 

Hannibal must have anticipated her answer, as he did not ask her to reciprocate. They continued decorating. 

“Will your family be expecting contact from you? You have three siblings, correct?”

“Yeah. My brother is in prison for dealing drugs, I haven’t spoken to him since he went in. My baby sister lives with my mom. I usually send them cards and some money. My other sister left home as a teenager and lives in Georgia, bouncing from job to job. I also send her a card and some money if she needs.”

“Will emails and electronic gift cards be subject to suspicion?”

“I doubt they will think twice.”

“We will take care of that tomorrow.”

Clarice pulled a velvet ribbon out of the box and tied it in a bow around Dulce’s collar. Dulce licked her face and wagged. Hannibal observed, his eyes glinting. “I’m hungry. Would you like some lunch?”

“Sure, thank you.”

He began mincing vegetables for _balandeliai._ She pulled cabbage leaves and laid them out for him. Opening the freezer, he removed slices of chicken breast and a small bag containing thin slivers of brown meat. Curious, Clarice stepped closer to get a better look. “There’s not much there.”

“What you see are the remnants of a past life. I knew, when Will and I left home, that the lifestyle I had grown comfortable with would change. But old habits die hard, as they say. When I killed my first man here, I knew it may be my last--his position was, as you saw, supplanted. That aside, I thought it would be appropriate to save a piece of him for the day when I committed to moving forward, to saying goodbye to what I knew for so long.”

The pink withdrew from her skin with each passing word. She stepped away from the bag with alarm, as though it might bite. “That’s the man’s kidney.”

“What’s left of it, yes.” 

Keeping her head fully turned away, she stepped back further. Sweat appeared on her upper lip. “You only brought that out to see how I would react.”

“True, though I meant what I said. I want to pay tribute to the life I have lived. If I’m going to remain free and have a family, I can no longer prepare human meat. It is time to stop.”

Clarice kept her eyes straight ahead, daring not to look to Hannibal’s meal. The contents of her stomach churned. Vomit pressed against the bottom of her esophagus. She swallowed it down, wanting to appear as apathetic as possible. 

It was when the meat hit the hot pan that she lost control. The sizzle, the smell of charring...it was indistinguishable from beef tips or lamb chops. As the room filled with the scent, she saw the blood on her uncle’s denim shirt after an early morning out on the ranch. She saw the blood on her hands, blackest black under the moon. She heard the lambs, screaming their loudest in her ears. Translucent lights appeared in her vision and did not dissipate when she closed her eyes. Blood fled from her head and torso. Her brain was burning, but inside she felt very cold. She lowered herself to the floor. 

Hannibal lowered the heat on the burner and prepared a glass of water. He walked around the island to see Clarice on all fours. She was dry heaving with such force that it sounded as though she was turning inside out. He knelt down, placing the glass in front of her.

Never before had the aloof but intrigued reactions of Bedelia and Will seemed so extraordinary.

He placed his hand between her shoulder blades. Her muscles were as firm as rocks. 

“Clarice, let me give you an early Christmas present. I have killed around three dozen people. If you had not come here, that number probably would have grown. My gift to you is this: by staying here with us, you are saving lives. The value of that is lost on me, but I know it means something to you.”

Catching her breath, she shifted to sit on her heels. Sweat flattened and darkened her hair. Hannibal dipped his fingertips in the water glass and touched her forehead. She closed her eyes. The tension seemed to leave her. 

“What does it taste like?”

He took his hand away. “Would you like to try?”

Her skin retained its wanness. “I'm not that curious.”

He tucked his legs under him. “For muscle, it depends on the person. Fatter tends to be better, but only if the diet was decent. Athletic people have the best taste, but are tough. Overall, the taste is most akin to pork. Organ meats have a similar profile across mammalian species, unless diseased, of course.”

Clarice began to stand. Hannibal rose to his feet first and extended his hand. She reluctantly clasped it with hers. He pulled her to him. His touch was intimate, but paternal. “You will come to relax in time, little Starling.”

Her eyes focused passed him to the Christmas tree. The red and green lights blurred together as she fell into Hannibal’s hug. Soon Will would come home. He would see Hannibal’s surprise and smile. The two of them would walk Dulce together. All three of them would have dinner. Then they would try to create a life together.

Hannibal stroked her hair, the same way he pet Dulce. Smooth, comforting strokes. The scent of singed meat refused to leave.


	18. Freedom

**Chapter Seventeen**

_“Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.”--William Blake, “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell”_

_May 2020_

Clarice pressed her stomach against the apron-front kitchen sink. She had a soft layer across her abdomen that had never been there before, and it caught her off guard. Her body felt foreign to her. She was still learning its new bits and pieces.

Outside the window the trees were a radiant green. In the distance a large patch of soil was dark and velvety in the sun. 

Opening the fridge, she removed mayonnaise and lettuce. She began preparing a sandwich, meticulously picking up the crumbs as she did so. The countertop was a stunning white and gray marble, and she was terrified of ruining it.

She heard clicking from down the hallway. From the sound’s pacing, Clarice determined it was Margot walking in heels. As the sound grew closer, she recognized the coriander and clove notes of Margot’s perfume.

She glanced to the entryway when Margot approached. Margot possessed the poise and aplomb of the monied. She had an elegant beauty that intimidated Clarice. It did not help that, with her experimental fashion sense and frosty refinement, she reminded Clarice of Hannibal. When Clarice saw Margot, she alternated between hostility and a profound desire to fall into her arms and cry.

Today Margot was dressed in a slip-like navy dress and multiple gold chains. Her hair was loose and wildly curly.

“I just received an interesting email for you. Oprah would like to meet with you and do an interview, maybe several. Her team is offering you _a lot_ of money.” 

Clarice sliced a tomato. As the knife punctured its rind and the watery innards spilled out, she felt numb. “I’m not going to do it. The Vanity Fair article was a mistake. Alana told you I caught Freddie Lounds on the property yesterday, right?”

“She did. She told me she was scared by your reaction.”

“I got pissed. She was fucking trespassing.”

Margot stayed silent and watched Clarice. “No meat?”

Clarice shook her head. “I still can’t. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. I think I’ve been converted.”

“We have started to plant the soybeans.”

“I see that. The soil looks good. Nutritious.”

“If I were you, I would do the interview. The money could support you for a long time. You haven’t read the comments on the article, have you?”

“No. I don’t plan to.”

“You’ve touched people. People who have experienced terrible things like kidnapping, sex trafficking, hostage situations. Women look up to you. Some call you a hero.”

“Christ, I hate hearing that.”

“I’m sorry.”

They stood in silence. Clarice stared at her sandwich and decided she didn’t want it. She felt guilty for snapping at Margot. She felt guilty for her loneliness, the food on her plate, the invasion of their privacy, the slight chill in the summer air. Her shoulders felt tender and heavy. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just agitated...and fucked up and tired. Really tired.”

Margot did not touch Clarice, but she moved close enough to do so if she wanted. “I lost a child, too. I know there are no words for it. But if you want to try to talk about it, I’m here.”

Clarice knew what had happened to Margot. It was horrific, cruel beyond cruelty. To even approximate her lost year to that seemed self-serving and callous. 

_Just talk to her. Self-pity doesn’t look good on you._

“Margot…” It took her a long time to gather her courage. Margot stayed by her side calmly.

Clarice let herself be absorbed by the leaves outside as they swayed. “Leaving Simonetta wasn’t the worst part. It was leaving him. I miss all of them, but God, despite everything, I miss _him_ and it makes me feel so fucking crazy.”

She felt Margot’s eyes on her profile. Judging, waiting, debating how to continue the conversation. She turned to gaze out the window with Clarice. “We were all close to him, in our own ways, and we’re all mourning differently. I just try to remember that we were pawns to him.”

A protest, an explanation, built inside Clarice, but she chose to say nothing. Perhaps trying to give life to her feelings through words had been a mistake.

She recalled lines from a poem she had read many times in high school.

_Would it have been worth while_   
_If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,_   
_And turning toward the window, should say:_   
_“That is not it at all,_   
_That is not what I meant, at all.”_

***

_December 2018_

When Will arrived home, the first thing he did was remove his damp t-shirt. “It is miserable out there.”

Hannibal looked to him from the kitchen. “Indeed. I have been forced to wear shorts.”

As Will began walking to him, he discovered the tree. He gave a small laugh. “You told me Christmas was a hollow celebration.”

Hannibal came over to him. “Something I believe, but I know you feel differently.”

Will touched the ornaments and played with the settings on the lights, deciding on all red. “Thank you.”

“You have gifts under the tree.”

“Christmas isn’t for two days.”

“I’m impatient. When has anything about us been traditional?”

Will bent down to pick up two small packages, scrupulously wrapped in metallic gold paper. 

Hannibal poured Will a glass of water. “I should say, one is a gift to you, and one is a gift to myself.” 

Will opened the first to reveal a sonar depth finder he had been eyeing for weeks. He smiled softly as their eyes connected. “Thank you.”

Hannibal nodded in response. “Open the other one.”

Will complied. When he saw the clockface of a Rolex Submariner staring at him, he rolled his eyes. “It’s so ugly.”

“Wear it for me. You will come to love it, I promise.”

“I better, given the fortune you spent on it.”

Hannibal took the watch out of its packaging and wrapped it around Will’s wrist. Will placed a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. “I have a present for you, too.”

He left the room and returned with a jewelry box. Inside was a six millimeter wide platinum band with milgrain details. The corner of Hannibal’s mouth rose. “To replace my other one?”

“I wanted to give you something that made more of a statement.”

Hannibal’s smirk grew. “Something to mark me.” 

Will looked pleased. “Yes.” 

They looked at one another for a long time. Considering, debating, admiring. 

_I think your relationship is destructive._

_The Hindu god Shiva is simultaneous destroyer and creator._

Hannibal took Will’s hand and brought it to his mouth. He breathed in, taking in every trace of the ocean, and kissed his fingertips. Will closed his eyes. “Where is Clarice?”

“In her room. I may have exposed her to human meat, to which her reaction was not mild.”

Will was uneasy. “Is she still--”

“Yes. We can start, when you are ready.”

He took the strongest breath he had ever taken in his life. “Ready is not the right word.”

Hannibal’s arms encircled Will. He pulled him to his chest. “Yes, ready is a poor choice. Are you willing?”

Will nodded into Hannibal’s neck. “Very.”

“Let us go.”

They went to their bedroom. Across the hall, Clarice lied on her back. She tried not to imagine what has happening. She was not inexperienced, but sex was uncomfortable for her. It required a vulnerability that she disliked and did not possess. Knowing that Hannibal the Cannibal, the Chesapeake Ripper, Il Mostro was engaging in something so human disturbed her greatly.

She shut her eyes and tried to take her mind anywhere else, but in the dark there were only the lambs.

Her door opened. Wordlessly, Hannibal placed a syringe on her nightstand and left. She was thankful for the lack of conversation. 

_Freedom. Focus on that, Starling. That and nothing else._

She reached over. The syringe was warm. 

_If you can do this, you will be free._


	19. No More to Roam

**Chapter Eighteen**

January and February passed. Clarice woke in the night with cramping pains and warmth between her legs, on schedule. When she shook her head at Hannibal the morning after, the defeat he felt could only be matched by Clarice’s anxiety.

They did not spend their days very differently than other people. Will worked five days a week, sometimes six. Hannibal usually had an assignment to work on during the day. He cooked, Clarice cleaned. When she didn’t clean, she read, or exercised. And in free moments, they talked. All three of them usually ate dinner together. As the number of evenings together grew, so did the depth and length of their conversations. Clarice had never talked so much in her life.

“One thing I’ve never understood about your crimes, Hannibal.”

His brows rose as he looked in her direction. “Yes?” 

“How did you know your victims didn’t have a bloodborne disease? Hepatitis, HIV, things like that?”

Will’s face lifted in astonishment. He had not considered that, and that alone shocked him.

Hannibal kept eating the nicoise salad in front of him. “I can smell it.”

“At the risk of being rude, I have to say I’m skeptical.”

Will joined in. “When I had strept throat a few weeks ago, he knew before I did. Everyone who knows him has a story like that.”

The incredulous look did not leave her face. “So what does an infection smell like? Besides the obvious nasty skin ones.”

“Similar to the obvious ones you described. Rancid, corrupted.”

“Unappetizing.”

Hannibal smiled. “Yes.”

They continued to eat for a while. Clarice thirsted for wine but, given the circumstances, could not partake. She enviously watched Hannibal and Will as they filled their glasses.

She cleared her throat. “I have another question, about you. Why was Mischa’s murder not publicized?”

Hannibal looked to Will. Will touched his knee under the table. 

“Because Chiyoh and I kept it a secret. I wanted to kill him, Chiyoh didn’t. Luckily for her there was a shed on the property that Robertas and Murasaki never used.”

“I can’t see you bending to the will of a nine year old.”

Will interrupted. “If you met Chiyoh, you would understand.”

Hannibal, in an unusual move, placed his elbows on the table. “You seem keenly interested in me tonight.”

Clarice debated whether or not to be honest. After a while, she opted to do so. “I’m lonely, and bored.”

Hannibal and Will exchanged curious glances. Hannibal smirked. “So you are susceptible to loneliness. For the past months you have been trying to convince me that is not the case.”

Clarice stabbed an olive with her fork. “I’m susceptible, just less so than a...the average person.”

Will cocked his eyebrows in interest. “Do you like fishing?”

Some brightness came to her face. “Yeah, I sure do. I haven’t been in years though.”

“I can take you. I have a small boat at the marina. It’s nothing special, but it works.”

A warm feeling spread across Clarice’s skin. She was ashamed of it, the way their company made her feel so wanted. Still, despite everything, she was human, and she had difficulty resisting their temptations. “I would like that.”

Hannibal stood and prepared the espresso machine in the kitchen. “We are your family now, Clarice. I hope you come to accept that in time.” 

***

The ocean scattered light as though it were a massive diamond. With the light came heat. As the boat propelled forward, the wind rushing through their hair cooled the sweat on their scalps. When they stopped and dropped anchor, their hair was tousled and knotted. 

“We got a later start than I wanted, but we should still be able to snag some dorado.”

Clarice spread sunscreen on her skin and shared the bottle with Will. He opened the cooler to pull out a bottle of beer. Clarice recalled her grandfather’s lessons as she strung a hunk of sardine along the hook. Even as a child, she was surprised how little it bothered her to pierce a minnow’s back as it squirmed. 

They cast their bait and waited, as fishermen do. They were silent for a long time. She slightly dozed as the sun kissed her skin. She awoke to Will jerking out of his seat. By the time she had looked, Will’s line went slack, and he cursed under his breath. “Damn, felt like a big one.”

She stared at the water for some time. The gentle rocking threatened to return her to sleep. Occasionally her line swung, but each time was a false alarm. 

Will finished his beer. “Hannibal thinks we should all see a doctor, to make sure everything is alright.”

She thought she caught a glimpse of fin underneath the water’s surface. Soon they would get a bite.

“My mama had four kids, quick in a row. No trouble.”

Her line began unraveling at a rapid pace. She raced toward it and jerked the pole back. Something on the other end tugged and tugged. She could not reel fast enough to make headway. As suddenly as it came, the creature was gone, slipping away into the blue. She would never know what it was.

Surprisingly and absurdly, she felt like crying.

“Will…”

He turned his head. She did not turn hers.

“What will happen to me if one of us _can’t?_ Obviously you don't want to keep me around forever.”

He breathed in. “No, we can’t. I think we would have to kill you, out of convenience.”

She nodded. “I guess you would. What a family.”

“Families have done worse.”

The two of them were alone on the ocean. They had not seen another boat since they pulled away from the beach. She could hit him on the back of a head with a bottle, hopefully cause a hematoma or swelling, and push him overboard. She had never steered a boat on her own, though, and the prospect of getting lost on open water was more terrifying than being murdered.

And, for all she had thought about it in her life, she had never killed someone. She wasn’t sure she was ready to start.

Will offered her a Coke, startling her slightly. She took it. It was refreshingly cold.

She smiled.

“What are you thinking about?”

“When my mother thinks about her first grandchild, I don’t think she pictures a surrogate for the most famous serial killer in history.”

Will joined her in watching the water. “Not only is he a serial killer, he’s a European _man._ My father is rolling over in his grave.”

“What did your mother die of?”

“Cancer. Pancreatic, if I remember right.”

The wind picked up and bobbed them back and forth. Clarice sat as not to lose her balance. 

“That’s a rough one,” she said.

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” 

“Did you work to get rid of your accent, or did it go away on its own?”

“On its own, mostly. I moved around a lot and my only family was my father. I take it you have tried getting rid of yours.”

“Tried. When I pay attention to it, I can hide it. For a few days I can really put it behind me. But it inevitably comes back, like a bug you can’t shake.”

“I think it’s nice. It makes me crave biscuits and gravy and fried chicken.”

The corner of her mouth curled. “Do you think Hannibal has ever made biscuits and gravy?”

“No, but I don’t think he would consider it beneath him. He likes experiments.”

The wind continued. Nausea crept up Clarice’s throat. Will began preparing to turn back, wary of the wind’s persistence. 

As the temperature came down, she wrapped her arms around herself. A song came to a mind, a song her father used to sing all the time.

_I know dark clouds will hover o’er me,_   
_I know my pathway is rough and steep_

Her singing voice was not strong, but it was sweet and twangy. Will knew the song well. It tug on something deep within him. The lyrics escaped from his lips.

_But golden fields lie out before me,_   
_Where weary eyes no more will weep_   
_I’m goin’ home to see my father_   
_I’m goin’ home, no more to roam_

When they docked, they were damp from sweat and humidity. The taste of salt worked itself onto their tongues. When they first began walking home, Will placed his hand between her shoulder blades. His touch was neither gentle nor overbearing. It seemed like a slight push.

Clarice felt something in her snap. She was not sure what it was, but it was almost audible, as though an organ had come away from its lining. She felt oddly enlightened. Her body had realized something, but kept it out of her mind’s reach.


	20. Irretrievable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update--life has been difficult and probably will be for a while. I promise at least monthly updates, though. As always, thank you all for reading.

**Chapter Nineteen**

_“I am terrified by this dark thing_  
_That sleeps in me;_  
_All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity._  
_Clouds pass and disperse._  
_Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?_  
_Is it for such I agitate my heart?”--Elm, Sylvia Plath_

_March 2023_

Clarice had been dating Jacob for four months. He was the first man she had dated since before Argentina. In truth, it was her longest relationship. Unlike her past men, Jacob was patient. He was forty-five and divorced, with a teenaged son from his previous marriage. He could wait for her to open up.

They shared a bottle of wine and chatted about work. Jacob was a defense attorney and they often had disagreements. When Clarice began with “you don’t know what it’s like,” she had to remind herself that she was not in law enforcement anymore. She was an assistant psychology professor at the University of Maryland. Her focus was forensic psychology, but her students considered her the main attraction. Every day they came expecting her to talk about Lecter. They left disappointed. 

Jacob pulled her close and took her hand. He was always surprised at the slenderness of her fingers. 

He saw something new, something he had not seen during their winter romance of long sleeves and nights under the covers. It was a circular white scar on her forearm. The jagged, broken pattern was easily recognizable.

“Is that a human bite?” He sounded more eager than he wanted to, but it had to have a story.

She took her arm away from him and frowned. Jacob felt sorry. “I didn’t mean to--”

She breathed out and forced a smile. “It’s alright, I’m just not used to talking about it.”

“Was it him?”

Filling her glass, she leaned into him and stared at the muted local news. A man in a suit stood in front of a police station and gestured. 

She remembered the pressure of his teeth going in, the strange relief as he released her. Blood on their collars, blood on the floor.

“Yes.” 

***

_March 2019_

When Clarice saw the back of Hannibal’s neck, she decided it was time. His santoku knife lied on the island. With a jolt she grabbed it and pulled it close, keeping her arm bent and ready.

Hannibal turned. He was intrigued, maybe a little surprised. He finished drying the wine glass in his hand and calmly set it aside. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

She noticed she was white knuckling the knife and loosened her grip a little. A stiff wrist would not help her. “What makes you so sure?”

“You won’t hurt me, because of how you feel about me.”

Her cheeks turned crimson. She knew she didn’t want the answer, but curiosity got the better of her, as it often did. “Just how do I feel about you?”

He placed his palms on the island’s edge, his torso a few feet away from the knife blade. “In your studies you must have come upon the work of Harry Harlow.”

“Yes,” she answered tentatively.

“He showed the world the importance of attachment, yes? His infant monkeys, deprived of mothers or placed with faux mothers who shocked and stabbed them, developed innumerable problems. Inappropriate shyness, aggression, even self-mutilating behaviors. Us mammals can only properly orient ourselves to the world if we are exposed to a parent’s tender touch.”

She grew nervous and tightened her grip despite herself. Hannibal lifted his gaze to hold steady contact with hers.

“You love me. You love me the way a child should love her parent. You crave my approval, find comfort at the sound of my voice, relax under my touch. You wonder how you have come so far without experiencing this kind of love before, and you’re disgusted with yourself because this love is directed toward me.”

A large lump formed in the middle of her throat. She wanted to cut him. More so, she wanted to cut herself. She was hot with rage.

“Do you know how I feel about you?” His voice slithered in her ears.

She choked on the lump. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do. You have been counting on survival by evoking the memory of my sister, and you do. But we are even more similar than you permit yourself to understand. You are dark, Clarice, dark as a winter night and just as severe. We have different perspectives but are of the same substance.”

“I’m not Will.”

“No, you are not. I never said you were.”

Her mind raced with a thousand thoughts. Exasperated, she slammed the knife down and backed away, her hands covering her face. 

_Stop crying. Stand up straight. Get yourself together._

When she removed her hands, Hannibal’s face was staring back at her. 

Desperation overcame her. She ran for the door. 

Hannibal was almost a foot taller than her and of long frame. Every step he took was two steps for Clarice. Before she could reach for the doorknob, his arms were around her waist. He pulled her off the ground and into his chest. She threw her elbows, kicked, twisted. In the chaos Hannibal lost his footing and they fell to the floor. Turning away from him, Clarice clambered to her knees. Hannibal did the same. Before he could stand, she landed a blow to the middle of his face.

He tumbled back, but not without grabbing Clarice’s arm. Within seconds his mouth was on her flesh. Bubbles of her blood burst on his tongue. 

She had been bitten by many animals. It bothered her, how this felt the same. 

As she was trained, she pushed her arm further into Hannibal’s mouth. He held on as long as he could before readjusting. When he did, she reclaimed her arm. His canines took more skin as she did so.

Hurting and breathless, they examined one another. Blood poured from Hannibal’s chin and neck, staining the ring of his collar. Blood ran down Clarice’s forearm. Fat droplets hit the ground around them.

Hannibal tried to stand but grew dizzy and reverted to all fours. He crawled to the kitchen. Pulling a cloth down from the countertop, he placed it against the bridge of his nose and leaned forward. A large dark red spot formed on the gray fabric.

Clarice placed the palm of her left hand over her wound and pressed down. The pressure was almost intoxicating as the blood seeped out between her fingers. 

Keeping the towel over his face, Hannibal carefully stood and walked back to her. Her muscles tensed as he approached. He extended a hand.

She looked into his eyes. He nodded. She reached out with her non-injured arm. Their hands met. Clarice’s blood spread along his palm. He pulled her up and she staggered into him.

They walked into the bathroom. While Clarice had her back to him, he undressed and stepped into the shower. She turned on the hot water and glanced back. Through the opaque glass she could see a fleshy outline, covering his face with his hands.

“Did I break it?”

“I don’t believe so.” 

She placed her arm under the spout. Red swirled around the drain. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know whether to be angry with you or be proud of you.”

 _A bite. A fucking bite._ During her preceptorship on a psychiatric unit at a detention center, abuse was a badge of honor. She and her colleagues would compete for who had the worse day: whose life had been threatened, who had been spit on, kicked. But no one even dared joke about getting bit.

She scrubbed her arm thoroughly with soap. The blood kept coming. 

“When was the last time you saw a doctor?”

There was a pause as Hannibal turned off the shower. “My sexual practices are not going to impact you.”

Her face ran hot. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?”

She scrubbed and scrubbed. _Asshole._

From behind her Hannibal pulled gauze and adhesive bandages from the medicine cabinet. A towel was tied around his waist. When Clarice looked in the mirror, she caught a glimpse of his bare back. “Jesus. Where did you get that scar?”

He turned off the faucet and signaled for Clarice to give him her hand. She complied. He patted her wound with a freshly washed hand towel. “Mason Verger found it appropriate to brand me.”

“You made him pay for that.” 

“No,” he placed a strip of gauze along her forearm, “I did not kill him.”

Her brows furrowed. If he had a reason to lie to her, she was not sure what it was.

He wrapped the adhesive bandage tightly around the gauze. “It was a favor to a friend, and her lovely wife.”

She looked up at him, her brows further together. When he saw the ever growing whites of her eyes, he smiled. “Everyone has their price, Clarice, even the illustrious Dr. Bloom. We make murder, it has no definition without human moralizing.”

He held her arm tightly, but not without affection. “Everyone’s worldview and self-concept has a splintering point. Mine was when I met Will. Will this experience be yours?”

***

One early morning, before March came to a close, Clarice woke with a terrible need to vomit.

Darting out of bed, she pounded her door with a frantic closed fist. Will opened it, asking what the hell was going on. Clarice pushed passed him for the bathroom. 

She was not used to vomiting. She had a strong stomach, something she attributed to a lifetime of eating expired food. This was unlike any illness she had been through before. She vomited and vomited until she shook.

Clarice knew.

Will placed a bottle of water by her knees. He backed away, the smell making him nauseous, but he could not in good faith leave her.

He reached out a hand and let it hover over her shoulder before bringing it back. Instead, he watched.

Eventually she crawled away from the toilet and sat against the wall. Wet strands of hair were fixed to her forehead. She was paler than some corpses Will had seen.

She shut her eyes. Will watched her breath return to normal.

“Should we wait until Hannibal gets home?”

She coughed, clearing her throat. “You know the answer to that.”

Will nodded. “What can I do for you?”

A single bead of sweat rolled off the tip of Clarice’s nose. “Call him. I want him here, now.”

“Clarice…”

She looked at Will. There were red specks all around her eyes. “What?”

Will spread his lips to speak, but decided to say nothing.


	21. Marathon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience. Clarice's story line inspired by Will's narrative in Red Dragon.

**Chapter Twenty**

_Marathon, Florida_

_August 2025_

Alana Bloom parked her rented Ford Focus under a palm tree. The house before her was a powder blue fixer on flood stilts. She walked to the front porch as the palm leaves rustled with the ocean breeze.

It only took one knock to set off a chain reaction of barks and shouts. She stood outside for a while. Finally, when all was quiet again, the front door opened to reveal Jacob Schwartz. 

“Hello, Dr. Bloom.”

“Alana is fine.” 

He opened the door wider to let her in. As soon as he did so, a bounding bullmastiff ran up to her and spread a decent amount of slobber all over her von Furstenberg blouse.

“HUNTER, NO.”

Before Jacob could get a swat in, the dog was gone, having darted to the back of the house.

“I’m so sorry. That’s Clarice’s damn dog. I told her I didn’t want another dog, and a few weeks ago she came home with that.” He pulled a paper towel from the roll and handed it to her.

“Don’t worry, I have boys. Drool is the least of my worries these days.”

As she patted her shirt dry, Jacob offered her a drink. She accepted a can of diet ginger ale. The house was simple and had a halfway done look. Exposed drywall and tarp-covered floors dotted the kitchen and hallway to the bedrooms. 

“Where’s Clarice?”

“Out back with the other dogs.”

“How is she doing?”

Alana watched his shoulders rise and fall as he sighed. He had the typical build of a fit man in his forties: thin but sculpted limbs with a hint of belly. Rather than go bald, he had opted to shave his head, leaving a faint dark shadow across his scalp. 

“I don’t know. It made sense to move here. We both got good jobs in Miami, my son goes to school there now. When we found this place, she was so excited. The three of us spent every weekend doing projects. She tiled the bathroom, painted most of the walls. Got that stupid dog. But a few weeks ago, something changed in her mind. She spends a lot of time drinking beer and staring off into space.”

“Maybe the climate reminds her of South America.”

Jacob looked at her and shook his head. “You shrinks.”

Alana smiled. “We’re good for something. I’m going to say hello.”

Upon opening the backdoor, Alana was greeted by two rough looking dogs. One, a gray scruffy terrier, was missing his rear left leg. The other, a black Chihuahua with a silver muzzle, had cataracts. They surrounded her and alternated between barking sharply and scurrying. 

The property sloped down to the waterfront. Alana took off her patent flats and held them in one hand as she walked in the white sand. Clarice sat on a bench table, turned to face the ocean. Alana could see her reddish hair move with the breeze. 

“Why have one when you could have six?”

Clarice had a cooler full of Budweiser by her feet. She looked over her shoulder to see Alana gently smiling at her. 

“Did you come all this way to mother me?”

“No. I came all this way for a conference in Key West and thought I would see you. You would have known that if you had returned any of my calls or texts. Or emails.”

Clarice slid over so Alana could share the bench. “Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

“I know. How is your dissertation coming?”

“Slowly.”

Once she had sat down, the two dogs came over to Alana and cautiously sniffed her skirt and shoes. “What are their names?”

“The gimpy one is Three-Legs and the Chihuahua is Batman.”

Alana laughed and reached out for Three-Legs. He reluctantly received pets. “I take it you didn’t name them.”

“Nathan named them when he was a kid. They’ve had them for eleven years now, I think. How is Morgan?”

“A handful, but he’s been seeing a behavioral therapist for a while. We think it’s helping.”

“Acting out because of new little brother, or because he’s a Verger?”

“I think it’s a little of both. Jacob is worried about you.”

“I know. He told his mother I was depressed and she stayed with us for a week.”

Alana noticed that Clarice’s accent had thickened since she last saw her. She wondered if it was the country life, or if it was the alcohol.

“Are you depressed?”

Clarice finished her can and carried it off to the recycling bin before answering. “Aren’t you the psychiatrist?”

“Psychiatrists rely on patient reports. And I’m not _your_ psychiatrist.”

Clarice stretched her hands up above her head and sighed. She kept her eyes firmly away from Alana’s, allowing Alana a good look of her face. Her hair was short again, and her lips were chapped from oceanside living. The sun had darkened her freckles and deepened the fine lines on her face. She was finally starting to look her age.

“Shit, I don’t know. I’m frustrated. I was doing pretty well, Alana.”

“Did you spend a lot of time on the beach, with them?”

They watched the dogs dig for small crabs by the water. 

“I must be the only person alive this miserable about living on the ocean.”

“You need help moving forward. You have lost people dear to you, and you’re grieving. But unresolved grief is a poison and it’s killing you. Believe me, I know what it looks like.”

Clarice hugged herself against the wind. “I should go back to therapy.”

Alana nodded. Fine strands of hair stuck to her lipstick as the breeze picked up. “I have a long drive to my hotel.”

Clarice turned her head to look at Alana and gave her a faltering smile. “Thank you for coming.”

“If you need anything, just call me,” Alana replied, knowing Clarice would never do so. She stood and fastidiously straightened out her skirt. After a clumsy exchange of smiles, they hugged. Alana could feel Clarice’s shoulders lower as her muscles relented. She began pulling away from Alana when that happened. Alana patted her shoulder and wished her well. 

She walked back to the house, leaving Clarice behind with her dogs and her beer and her lonely view.

Jacob had been watching from the kitchen window. “What do you think?” 

Alana ran her fingers through her windblown hair. “In my professional opinion, she’s...very sad. She’s willing to return to therapy, though.” 

He placed his hands on his hips. “What can I do to help her? I feel like I’ve tried everything, but you know her better than I do.”

Alana was struck by how true that was.

“Let her know that you love her, often, and bother her about calling a therapist. She won’t do it unless someone else cares about it.” 

She excused herself to the bathroom. Jacob pointed her down the hallway. 

On the way was her genuine destination: the bedroom. She stepped inside. Clarice’s bag--a Michael Kors messenger that was undoubtedly the most expensive item she owned--sat on her desk. Alana unzipped it to remove a small leather wallet inside. She checked behind her before examining the contents. 

Tucked tightly in the last pocket was a folded photo. When she flattened it, her eyes went to a girl in a frilly polka dot swimsuit. Her skin was tan and her hair was blonde and wild in that obstinate toddler way. She was being held by a shirtless Hannibal, and on her other side was Will, also wearing swim trunks. Behind them the ocean blended into the sky. They were a beautiful family. Aside from their thick facial hair, Hannibal and Will were as she remembered them. The muscles of her chest tightened around her heart.

She knew she would find something like this, but she was not prepared to see it. There were Will’s blue eyes and his toothy smile. Hannibal’s pale bangs and bare chest. Lips she had kissed. Bodies she had felt. 

And there were two murderers and their child of an abductee, and a clueless person behind the lens. 

She was tempted to tear it apart, but she was not sure Clarice would ever forgive her.


	22. Mothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am still working on this! Thank you all so. much. for your continued interest and support.

**Chapter Twenty-One**

The ultrasound gel was cool. Her abdomen visibly recoiled from the substance. The technician laughed. “Lo siento.”

Will held the palm of his hand against her shoulder. As they watched the monitor, his fingers dug further and further into her skin. She was too far away to feel them. She had just spent hours answering questions about her health and family history she embarrassingly couldn’t answer.

Will had too, to a lesser extent. It was decided, given the lesser age difference, that Will would make a more believable faux partner for Clarice.

The technician beamed at them, “Wonderful, there is a heartbeat.”

Will squeezed her shoulder sharply. “Isn’t that great?” He tried to reign in his smile when he looked at her, but it couldn’t be helped.

She nodded and feigned a happy look. “Yes, great.”

They received an estimated due date: January 16th, 2020.

As they were leaving the office, Clarice turned around. “I forgot to mention something. I’m having horrible nausea in the morning.”

The nurse at the front desk looked up from her computer. “That is normal for the first trimester. Keep crackers by the bed to eat before getting up in the morning. Call us if that doesn’t help.”

Clarice thanked her and followed Will out the door. Hannibal was already waiting in the running car. Will went to open the passenger’s side door but paused when he caught Clarice in his vision. He gestured for her to take his seat. 

Hannibal looked to Clarice, then over his shoulder to Will. “Do we have a heartbeat?”

Will broke into a grin. “We have a heartbeat.”

As Will’s hand cupped Hannibal’s shoulder, Hannibal’s hand laid over it and squeezed. Tears formed along his lower lashes. “Wonderful. Wonderful.”

Clarice faced away from them. She watched the storefronts and apartment buildings pass by as they drove.

***

Dinner was stiff. The pasta Hannibal prepared was oddly uninspired. Hannibal and Will spent a good amount of time looking at one another, trying to tease out what to say. 

The silence and solitude surrounding her started to make Clarice terribly anxious. “If you’re sparing my feelings, that ship sailed a long time ago.”

Hannibal swirled his wine. “Whenever a major shift occurs in our lives, it is met with a certain degree of ambivalence, and shock.”

Will breathed out a long exhale. “I feel like if we talk about it, I will wake up tomorrow and none of this will have happened.”

He moved his gaze to his husband and kept it there. The candlelight brought out the red elements in Hannibal’s eyes, the elements that made him look otherworldly and frightening. Will loved those red eyes. The only thing he might love more was the life stirring inside Clarice.

Hannibal licked his lower lip and smiled at Will. After all the years he had spent observing it, he could--and often did--recreate every line and freckle in Will’s face. No other subject had graced his sketchbook as frequently.

Clarice could feel the connection between them. For a moment she understood why Will had thrown away everything for this. But that moment couldn’t last, and she told herself it was wrong.

“Would you want to have children in the future, Clarice?” Hannibal’s snakelike voice broke through her condemnation. Even then, she only truly heard one word: future. 

She chewed on an ice cube, her mouth having gone dry. “I never had my heart set on it. If it happens, it happens, I guess.”

“I was sure I didn’t want children, only because I never believed I would find someone to share my life with in an intimate fashion.” 

“Until you did.” Clarice’s tone was bitter.

“Until I did.”

Will poured himself and Hannibal a glass of wine. “Sounds like I’m the only one at the table who has always wanted to be a parent. It just seemed like something I could do right.”

Hannibal leaned forward in classic psychiatrist fashion. “Do you believe losing your mother so young impacted you in that way?”

“Maybe. Life felt incomplete at times, with just my dad and I.”

“I adored my mother, and my aunt. I appreciated having strong female influences in my life. They taught me to enjoy the sensual aspects of life...cooking, music, art.”

Will cleared his throat. “You should tell me about your mother more often.”

A distant and wistful look fell over Hannibal’s eyes. “She called me _mimmo._ Her favorite Lithuanian food was _spurgos._ She made me remove my shirt before I helped her bake them, because I was careless with the flour. When the police officer told me she had died, it hurt in a way I didn’t know was possible.”

Will and Clarice had long stopped eating. Will out of distraction, Clarice out of nausea. She twirled capellini around her fork as Hannibal spoke. 

“Your manners, Clarice.”

She dropped her fork and it hit the plate with a clang. “I’m sorry.”

“While we are on the subject, I notice your mother never tries to get in contact with you.”

“I talk to her on Christmas and her birthday, if I can get a hold of her.”

Will and Hannibal, parentless and perpetually isolated, cast Clarice inquiring glances. The corners of Will’s mouth pulled down. “What happened?”

She brought her water glass to her mouth and tipped it. Another ice cube tumbled in. 

“I really, really don’t want to talk about it.”

***

_Clarice paced around the kitchen. Her foster family for the year had the largest home she had ever seen, a McMansion in a Charleston suburb. It had plenty of room for their blended biological and adopted family. Members of the Mormon church, they left Clarice on her own during Sunday mornings. She had the cavernous off-white castle to herself, but all she could do was stare at the chipped black polish on her fingernails._

_“Alright, Starling, stop being a chickenshit and do this.” She reached for the phone on the wall. When she heard the dialing, she immediately regretted her action._

_“Hello?”_

_“Hey mama.”_

_“How are you, darlin’?”_

_“I’m good. Really good, actually. I, uh, got into the University of Virginia on a scholarship.”_

_A pause. She was expecting this. “Mama?”_

_“Well, you’re not gonna go right away, are ya?”_

_“I have to, for the scholarship.”_

_An angry sigh that seemed to last hours. “What the hell am I supposed to do? You have two baby sisters at home and a baby brother in jail, in case you forgot.”_

_“I didn’t forget, Mama.”_

_“Do you know how much Tanya’s therapy costs? And everything for Rob?”_

_“I told you to stop payin’ those damn lawyers. He’s guilty. Everyone knows it and they’re bleedin’ you dry.”_

_“Don’t talk to me like that. I can barely keep a roof over our heads. I just got Joe to give you a job down at the restaurant, too. You would be bussin’ at first, but then you could be a server, and bartender. Bartenders make good money here. Just do it for a couple years.”_

_Clarice had scraped off most of the nail polish on her left hand. “I can’t turn this down. I’ll get a degree and apply to the best law enforcement agencies in the country. When I get a steady income and benefits I can help you out better.”_

_“We’re just all beneath you, aren’t we? Your mother with a GED and brother in juvie. You’re embarrassed, aren’t you?”_

_That one cut. Clarice felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. Moreover, she was pissed._

_“Do you ever remember that I’m a child?”_

_“And children are to be seen and not heard.”_

_“Yeah, fuck me for tryin’ to do somethin’ with my life. I’ll send Tanya money when I can. Try not to piss it away on your failure of a son.” Clarice slammed the phone against the countertop. When she looked at it again, a deep crack ran along the speaker. “Goddamnit, SHIT.”_

_The foster’s two yellow labs stared at her from the doorway, their brown eyes wide and guilty. Her heart sank into her stomach. “I’m sorry boys. Wanna go outside?” At that all was forgotten and they bounced for the backdoor. She watched them burst for the green of the yard. They were purebred dogs with glossy, well-manicured coats. An array of brightly colored toys dotted the grass. As they jumped, their tags jingled. Tags hanging from LL Bean embroidered collars._

_She thought those dogs were more loved than she ever would be._


	23. Flesh and Blood

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

_“MEPHISTOPHELES:_  
_Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd_  
_In one self place; but where we are is hell,  
_ _And where hell is, there must we ever be.”--Doctor Faustus, Christopher Marlowe_

The pregnancy had Clarice on her back for several weeks. Waves of nausea and vomit came for her throughout the day. She spent most of her time on the couch with a cool washcloth on her forehead, listening to old Simpsons episodes in Spanish.

Hannibal diligently prepared mashed potatoes for her--the only thing she could tolerate--multiple times a day. One day, when she had been in front of the toilet all morning, he knelt down with her and placed his hands on her back. He began pressing his palms and thumbs into the knots of her neck and shoulders. Too drained to challenge him, she accepted the massage with gratitude, and sighed with pain and relief at the muscles becoming undone.

As the first trimester came to a close, the nausea dissipated while her lower abdomen began protruding slightly. Clarice had always been athletic and muscular, and the shift in her body had her looking in the mirror constantly, running her hand over her belly again and again. 

On a Sunday morning while Will fished, Hannibal had an invitation to go with Clarice’s breakfast.

“Mass?” She rose an eyebrow as she took the first sip of her decaf coffee. 

“You and I are close. It is important to me that you experience it at least once.”

Clarice shrugged. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

Despite their close proximity to several churches, they drove to a large cathedral in the center of the city. 

“I prefer this one to those in our neighborhood. It’s architecture is stunning and the prayers are performed in Latin.”

They pulled up to a massive Neoclassical structure that felt transplanted from a different time. As they walked in, Clarice’s breath escaped her. Marble arches, curved ceilings, gold accents. It was a far cry from her hometown church in the strip mall. She could hardly believe this existed in the current century.

She followed Hannibal’s cues. Whenever he crossed himself or knelt, she did the same. She only stayed behind during the Eucharist. Not being a Catholic herself, she did not feel right participating in something so seemingly sacred.

Her ears picked up the familiar sounds of Latin, though she did not know any words.

_hic est enim calix Sanguinis mei novi et aeterni testamenti,  
qui pro vobis et pro multis effundetur in remissionem peccatorum_

Her eyes followed Hannibal as he approached the altar. He crossed himself before the priest and opened his mouth. The priest delicately placed a wafer on Hannibal’s tongue. 

By the time Mass had ended, which seemed to Clarice like years, she was dizzy from the incense and heat radiating from the candles. When they returned to the car, she closed her eyes a while before speaking.

“Catholics believe that Christ is actually in the bread and wine, right?”

“Essentially that is correct.”

“What kind of person consumes the flesh and blood of their savior?”

Hannibal glanced at Clarice. When he saw the sly, teasing look on her face, he smiled. 

***

They agreed on lunch on the beach. They would be there when Will returned from fishing.

The day was overcast but with a hot breeze and the water was irresistible. 

Walking side by side in the shallows, they threw sticks for Dulce. Clarice strolled for a while before realizing Hannibal had fallen behind. When she turned around, he had his hands in his pockets, staring at her.

“Do you know what truly divides us, Clarice?”

She thought about it. There were a hundred things. What would Hannibal think was most fundamental?

“Passion?” 

He nodded. “The difference between you and I is that I love life. The arrangement of a piece of music, the layers of color in a painting, the body of a beautiful woman, or man...it all inspires me. I love life. You merely tolerate it. What would happen if you let yourself act on your impulses, construct your darkest fantasies?”

She walked back toward him. “I would be more like you.”

“And you would be much happier for it. What restrains you? It is not docility, nor is it a lack of intellect.”

She kept walking until their toes were nearly touching. Hannibal saw sadness and inquisitiveness in her blue eyes. “People need law and order. And someone needs to protect the weak from people like you.”

“There is no one like me.”

She reached out and awkwardly planted her hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. He could feel the slightest tremble beneath her skin. She smelled of worry. 

“Before I came here, I wasn’t sure what love was, but I thought it was something pure and selfless.”

He wrapped his hand around her wrist. His thumb easily folded over the rest of his fingers. “My dear, love is completely selfish. It is about meeting needs. Will and I love each other because we provide one another something no one else can.”

It was strangely comforting, the way Hannibal had an answer for everything. Clarice was rarely attracted to anyone, let alone Hannibal Lecter...but if she were another person in another set of circumstances, she could imagine falling in love with him. 

“I’m jealous of Will.”

In a moment rare for him, Hannibal appeared surprised. “Oh?”

Dulce wound herself between Clarice’s legs, her happy tongue flopping out of her mouth.

“Most people believe he’s either dead or you somehow brainwashed him. Took advantage of his anxiety, got him strung out on drugs or something. That’s what I thought. But he has you wrapped around his finger. You, Hannibal the Cannibal, the Chesapeake Ripper, would do anything if it meant being with Will. So few people have that kind of power.”

Hannibal held her in his gaze a while. Everytime he looked at her, he saw something new, something that caused him to stumble. She was like one of Picasso’s women, shifting and reassembling with each glance. “Despite your visage of humility, you are an ambitious little thing.”

She exhaled and pulled herself away. She wrapped her hand around her wrist, just as Hannibal had. “I’ve had to be.”

Hannibal rolled his pants to his knees and waded further into the water. Dulce followed him for a few steps, but became nervous and returned to Clarice’s side. 

For a brief moment, she thought he might walk into the waves until they carried him away. Then she saw Will’s boat coming in off the horizon. They waved to one another. 

***

After their dinner of Will’s caught striped bass, Hannibal opened a bottle of chilled _gewurztraminer_ and suggested they enjoy it in the bathtub together. The bath had enough room to accommodate both of them, as long as Hannibal’s long legs hung over the edge. 

“Clarice doesn’t look like a zombie anymore.”

Hannibal looked into his wine glass. “She’s feeling better. I spent the day with her.”

Will cocked his head slightly. “What was that like?” 

“I believe she is beginning to understand our values.”

“So the best values.”

Hannibal smirked. “Of course.” 

“Don’t get your hopes up about her, Hannibal. She may understand, but she may not let herself embrace it. You are undoubtedly the smartest person here, but damn if she’s not the strongest.”

“She said she was jealous of you.”

A flash in Will’s eyes. “Jealous?”

“That was the word she chose to use. Jealous of the control you have over me.”

Will sipped his wine before laying his head back. He appeared satisfied. “I would be jealous of me, too.”

“Do you believe she desires me, sexually?” 

Will knew that Hannibal was only hunting for his reaction. It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. 

“I think she is profoundly disinterested in that. As you are.” He raised an eyebrow at Hannibal, daring him.

Hannibal stroked Will’s thigh under the water. “Of course I’m not interested. She is like a sister to me.”

Will swallowed the last bit of alcohol in his glass. “We only have so long to be together, just the two of us...alone.” 

Hannibal followed Will’s lead. He set his empty glass on the floor. “Alone together, you and I. It has been this way for so long. Strange to think that soon it will be changing.” 

The corner of Will’s mouth curled up. “Let’s not waste it.”


	24. Flowers of Evil

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

_“I looked to Love to cure my old disease._   
_Love led me to a thicket of IVs_   
_Where bristling needles thirsted for each vein.”--The Fountain of Blood, Charles Baudelaire_

Hannibal was in the preparation stage of lunch when he received a phone call from a client. Alma Edizioni, a Florentine publisher specializing in Dante, was working with him for a second time, though they were not aware of that. He covered the receiver while he told Will it may take a while. He retreated to their bedroom.

Will and Clarice took over chopping radicchio and fennel for the salad. 

Given Will’s work schedule, he and Clarice had not spent much alone time together. His free time was often spent with Dulce on the beach or with Hannibal in their bed. Clarice was also somewhat frightened of him. 

But fear never stopped her before. Between the sounds of Hannibal’s muffled Italian and knife blades against wood, she decided to pry.

“Do you ever feel nervous, assisting him with dinner?”

Will began gathering the fruits of their work into a bowl. “No. I’m not as self-conscious as you are.”

She was not sure if that was a mere observation or a criticism. She decided that if Will wanted to hurt her feelings, he could have gone lower. 

“Does he ever talk to you about his childhood? I’m just curious.” That was mostly true.

He opened a drawer and removed a corkscrew. “Rarely. I was the first person he told about Mischa, and even then it was minimal information.”

Disappointing. There was a pause as Will carefully chose a bottle of wine. A contemplative look came over him. While he was lost in thought, Clarice took a hard look at his face. His hair was long and messy now, his beard was full and covered his scars well. He should have appeared like the man she had studied in photographs. Yet, somehow, he could not have been more different.

He turned his head so quickly that Clarice jumped. 

“I know what he is. I know what he’s done is evil. But what I care about is the degree to which he loves. I think he loved his family very much.”

She was not expecting that. In the many months she had spent with them, she had not seen Will be tender in such a way. Provoked by her presence, the way he spoke about Hannibal was often defensive. She lost sight of the questions she had prepared.

He took a step toward her. She fought against the urge to take a step back.

“He loves us very much.”

Her ears felt hot. She focused on the cutting board between her hands. “He loves you and the baby.” Her voice was flimsy and it embarrassed her. 

Will had heard her lack of conviction. He let that be the end of their conversation. They went about preparing their meal until Hannibal returned.

***

Clarice had always stood apart. She had a grit and decisiveness that stemmed from the desperation of poverty. When she wanted something, she dug her teeth into it like a starving dog. 

But she was intelligent enough to let the world test her. She knew that there were no absolutes in life, and steadfast morality had its pitfalls. Constantly questioning, validating, and reforming her own beliefs, Clarice spent much time in her head. This was a trait that Hannibal found admirable as well as tedious.

He checked her email twice a day, in the morning and in the evening after dinner. Normally it was nothing worth tending to. 

This evening he saw Ardelia Mapp’s name in the sender column. Ardelia occasionally checked in on Clarice, but he could tell she was used to Clarice being aloof and she was easily mollified. The title was interesting, though. “I’m Sorry.” He clicked on it.

_Clarice,_

_I debated sending this to you. I’m sure you’ve seen it, and if you haven’t...I wasn’t sure you would want to. But I decided if I was in your place I would want to know._

_Chris follows several law enforcement newsfeeds, including correctional stuff. He saw this this morning and sent it to me._

_I’m so sorry. Let me know if I can help in anyway._

There was a link under her message. He saw the words “inmate dead” in the link’s text.

He was taken to a West Virginia news website. A man’s face, milky and freckled, stared back at him.

_TAYLOR COUNTY, WV--An inmate, identified as Robert Starling, was found dead in his cell at Pruntytown Correctional Center early this morning._

_The cause of death was determined to be blunt force trauma to the head. His cellmate, Anthony McBride, is being charged with first-degree murder._

_Sources report that Starling requested a new cell assignment several times due to confrontations with McBride and was going to be moved later in the week._

_Next of kin have been notified._

Intriguing. He got out of his chair and approached the loveseat where Clarice was reading. Will watched as Hannibal reached his hand down to her shoulder. He muted the soccer game he was watching. 

“Clarice, there is something you should see.”

She looked up from her book, an old edition of Leroux’s _The Phantom of the Opera_ , and followed Hannibal back to his seat without speaking. He offered his chair to her. Will observed them, breathing as quietly as he could.

Clarice made eye contact with photograph. Rob, her brother, two years her junior. She read over the rest of the article. 

She recalled a phone call she received shortly before leaving for Argentina.

_Clarice did not answer phone calls from unfamiliar numbers--always the Red Cross or debt collectors. When her screen displayed a number with a West Virginia area code, she thought it was odd but nothing more._

_The number flashed three times in a row. For each call, there was a breathy but wordless voicemail. During the fourth call, Clarice picked up._

_“Hello?”_

_“Is this Clarice Starling?”_

_“Who is calling?”_

_“I’ll cut to the chase. I’m guessin’ your brother is Rob Starling. Now, he’s a taker, that brother of yours. Borrowed a lot of money from me, haven’t seen a cent back.”_

_She felt warmth on the back of her neck. “Rob’s locked up.”_

_“I know that, hun. That’s why I’m callin’. See, I know I won’t get any money from ‘em, so what choice do I have? Either I get that money from someone, or Rob has to learn a lesson.”_

_“I’m not paying a damn dime.” Clarice knew the smartest thing to do would have been to play dumb and ignore this whole situation. She was too angry for that._

_“I’m not sure you understand me. I have friends in Prunty. We won’t go easy on ‘em.”_

_Her heart raced with fury. “He’s in Three Alpha, cell six. Kill him for all I care. And don’t ever call this number again.”_

Guilt burned in her stomach. She could feel Hannibal and Will bearing down on her.

“A month before I quit the Bureau a man called me asking to pay off Rob’s debt.” She was surprised to hear her voice. She didn’t feel herself speaking.

Hannibal towered over her. “I take it you did not.”

“I told him he could kill Rob for all I cared.”

He straightened his back and clasped his hands. “You killed him.”

Many words spun around in her head. _No, he made his bed, I didn’t do shit, I was angry, I was hurt._

But all of those words were untrue. “Yeah, I did.”

Hannibal and Will exchanged glances. Will’s eyes were wide and in the dim evening light they were slate gray. Hannibal stared into those eyes while he spoke to Clarice. “How do you feel about that?”

Rob, being the only boy, had always been their mother’s favorite. This favoritism only deepened when their father was shot and killed. However, despite the physical resemblance, he was no Officer Frank Starling. For a long while she attributed his bad behavior to being fatherless, but as he grew it became clear that something was wrong with him. The irresponsibility and self-pity that infected so many Scots-Irish men of the South ran wild in Rob. 

She sighed. “Sad for my mother.”

“How do _you_ feel?”

She wanted to be unsure. She wasn’t. “Relieved.”

“Your family will be expecting a phone call.”

“Yes.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cell phone he kept for Clarice’s communications. Dulce nudged Will’s hand. He pet her while keeping his gaze on Clarice.

When Clarice’s youngest sister Tanya answered, she was overwhelmed with gratitude. “Hey sis.”

“Hi, Clarice. How are you?”

“I’ve been better. You?” Tanya was young and passive, but she was smart and had no misconceptions about their brother or the preferential treatment he received. 

“Same. Mama hasn’t left her bed or said a word for hours.”

“Is someone helping her?”

“Aunt Linda is here.”

“Good. You need to focus on yourself. Should I talk to Ma?”

“I...I don’t think that’s a good idea, sis.”

Clarice chewed on her lips. “Okay. You need money?”

“Soon. I’ll email you.”

They ended their conversation. As she gazed down, clutching the phone reflectively against her round belly, Hannibal thought she looked quite beautiful, a modern Madonna. He would depict her as such in his sketchpad after escorting Clarice to her room. He did so in bed, with Will’s head on his shoulder. Will watched as his pencil traced the outline of her face, detailed a veil cascading down her shoulders. He would have been jealous if the Clarice in this portrait wasn’t quite young, and if the other pages weren’t filled with images of him.

He fell asleep, soothed by the back and forth motion of the carbon tip.

In his sleep he waded into a moving stream. An adolescent girl stood to his right. Her features were an amalgamation of Abigail and someone he did not know yet. The wendigo approached him from behind and slithered an arm around his waist. When he turned, it was Hannibal, and blood poured from his mouth. Will kissed him, the taste of iron spreading onto his own tongue.

Hannibal dreamt of his childhood kitchen, where the scent of onions and dill filled every crevice. His mother stood taller than him in her embroidered white dress and braided chestnut hair. _“Can you bring in your sister?”_ He stepped into the garden. Mischa was older than he remembered, but had a child’s chubby hands and dirty feet. She was cradling an aubergine, her favorite color. When she looked up, she smiled at him, her eyes shining bright blue. 

Sleep was hardest on Clarice. She fumbled with the lock on the lamb pen. Every time she was close to undoing the latch, her hands were too clumsy. A creature, humanoid and lupine at once, stalked from the forest edge. As it came closer, fear only worsened her dexterity. Its breath, hot and sweet, was on the back of her neck as the lambs screamed and screamed.


	25. A Suspicion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much.

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

In a culture that valued guts and hunches, Clarice often felt like an outsider. Even in the Bureau, where thoroughness and calculation were taught, the most awarded were often the most brazen. Clarice had always thought that a life of decision trees and to do lists would protect from a life of failure, though she wondered about that policy now. 

And though she was not naturally inclined to intuition, she woke up one morning and was sure that the baby was a Lecter baby.

There was no way to know now if that was true, and regardless Hannibal and Will were not curious. It was their child, a child they would know for the rest of their lives, and early on it would be clear who the genetic father was. 

But Clarice was certain. Her body was home to Hannibal Lecter’s child, and how her life had come to this point was beyond her and tested her already tenuous relationship with God.

She decided to keep this feeling to herself. With pregnancy her body did not feel private anymore, and the fact that she had knowledge the men did not consoled her.

Hannibal and Will had hunches of their own. Without speaking much about it, they both operated as though their child, 16 weeks old, was a girl. After the presence and loss of Abigail, it seemed only right. 

“What do you think about names?”

Hannibal had been working on a poem when Will addressed him. He placed the end of his pen to his lips.

“I have one chosen, for a girl. If you approve.”

“A family name?” Will guessed. Both Hannibal and Mischa had been Lecter family names, and Hannibal’s nostalgic streak had been deepening as of late.

He nodded. “Somewhat. I would like to name her after my mother.”

“Simonetta.” Will considered it. He approached Hannibal and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I think it’s beautiful. Which one of our false names should we give her?”

Hannibal smirked along with Will. “Simonetta Petrov does have a nice ring, if I don’t say so myself. We could always hyphenate as well.”

“What about a boy?”

Hannibal took Will’s hand into his own and kissed it. His skin tasted like the ocean.

“William never goes out of style.” 

***

Clarice had read many baby books, and in those books the second trimester was described as a break. Between the nausea of the first trimester and the body aches of the third, the second trimester was a time for joy and activity. 

She was surprised and unsettled when she began to feel that way. Once anxious and bored, she was beginning to like her surroundings. It helped that Hannibal had furnished her room. With an antique dresser, sleek Danish chairs, and _ukiyo-e_ prints, the room was an amalgamation of all things appealing to the eye. 

Hannibal and Will left the room unlocked during short trips out. Clarice had no concept of when they began doing so, as there was no announcement. One day a lonely and eager Dulce managed to open the door by jumping on it. When the door swung her way, it held little excitement for her other than being notable. What could she do? She still did not know where her phone and wallet was kept. She had her guesses, but in any event the location would be locked. 

She had her mission: to bear a child and be a free woman again. That was the plan and thus far it had been progressing well. To have all the heartache and preparation and time be thrown away in favor uncertainty was not tempting.

And she wanted to meet the baby. She told herself it was a desire to see the outcome of her work, though she did not know if that was true.

God help her, Clarice liked Hannibal and Will and that went against everything she knew. 

In her career she had interviewed more murderers than she could name, including one other cannibal. He was a tortured schizophrenic plagued by religious delusions and command hallucinations. He cried and mumbled throughout their interaction, his antipsychotic regimen only lessening his condition enough to give him insight into what he had done. According to the corrections officers and nurses who cared for him, he cried and prayed and rocked himself constantly. Clarice felt for him and still thought of him often.

Hannibal did not eat humans because voices told him too. He did not do it for sexual pleasure. He did it because humans were expendable. If someone had to die, why not? 

Hannibal and Will were murderers. They also lived an exceedingly domestic life with jobs, a dog, hobbies, friends, each other. Society loved the image of the serial killer next door but it did not happen that often; serial killers often had something to mark them--a low IQ, poor social skills, a history of domestic violence, sexual perversion. Hannibal’s only peculiarities were his upbringing and a taste for loud suits. 

And a pathological obsessiveness with those he loved, but being on the receiving end, Clarice found it difficult to denounce despite herself.

If the world worked in the way she believed it should, Hannibal would have gotten the death penalty. Will would not have helped him escape. They would have died going over the ledge. They would have been caught en route to South America. They would not be happily married, living close to the beach, with a child on the way from a woman who had barely anyone to care about her disappearance.

Perhaps God approved of the way Hannibal challenged him. Perhaps God paid little attention to humanity. Or perhaps the universe was chaos, with no rules or justice at all. 

A thought, appalling in its abandon and tempting in its freedom, coaxed its way into her mind: 

What if her place was here?


	26. Differing Perspectives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue and backstory adapted from Thomas Harris' Hannibal and Hannibal Rising.

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

_“But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not surely die. For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.’”--Genesis 3:4-6_

_"Pygmalion marvels, and loves the body he has fashioned._  
He would often move his hands to test and touch it,  
Could this be flesh, or was it ivory only?"--Ovid's Metamorphoses 

July announced itself as Argentina’s coldest month with a week of brisk rain. Clarice, having of course not anticipated this in her packing in November, was left with few warm clothes. 

Hannibal took pity on her. She was clearly not prepared for the Argentine coast’s surprisingly chilly weather. Also, she was not without taste, but her lifetime of struggle had left her with little to spare for a wardrobe. He decided the woman carrying his child deserved a few cashmere sweaters.

As he had anticipated, she visibly recoiled when he presented them to her. The sweaters, proudly displaying their luxurious material, may as well have been human remains.

“Hannibal, I can’t accept these.”

“Can not, or will not?”

“Will not.”

He was patient but noticeably irritated. “You are the only person so self-punishing to deny yourself in such a state. You will not be condemned for accepting an article of clothing.”

She glared at him. A few added pounds had suited her. Her face was softer, her skin smoother. He had noticed it before, but now something about the way she looked struck him. “You’re quite beautiful, Clarice.”

She shook her head. “Looks are an accident.”

“If comeliness were earned, you would still be beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

He removed the box of sweaters, still delicately folded, from her lap. “Don’t say ‘thanks.’”

“I say what I mean, you know that by now. I’ve tried changing the way I talk basically my whole life, but it won’t be beaten back. And I thought I could be authentic around you.”

“Authentic?,” Hannibal repeated incredulously. “If you were authentic, Clarice, you would have graciously accepted my gift to you. You would not be staring me down as you are now, pretending to view yourself as above me. You’ve never lacked the courage to say what you think, but you’ve been hampered by constraints. Come with me, I want to show you something.”

She followed him to his bedroom. This was only her second time in the room, her first being when she had entered illicitly at the beginning of her stay. 

He stopped in front of his antique mirror. “Study your reflection, Clarice.”

“Hannibal--”

“Please.”

Having been raised with good Southern manners, Clarice found it hard to deny such a simple request. She took his place in front of the mirror. 

“What do you see?”

What did she see? Her mother’s high cheekbones and crow’s feet and the way they both grew more pronounced after her father died. She saw her neck and chest in a shade of pink that would grow red with manual labor on the ranch. 

But she also saw new aspects of herself. Hair that glistened copper. Collarbones that sat under the skin forming gentle lines rather than stark angles. She looked feminine, polished. Beautiful.

Hannibal appeared in the mirror, his head above her own. “That heavenly vision is what you are.”

He was not without his scars and the blemishes of middle age, but Hannibal had his own polish. With the only light coming from above, his brow bones and cheeks were highlighted, exposing the exquisite anatomy of his face. For the first time, Clarice saw how they looked together, and they were not dissimilar. 

She felt a surge from within. Perhaps the baby was moving.

“What do you see?”

He held the back of her neck in his palm. 

She swallowed, hard.

“My whole life I tried to do the right thing and follow the rules. I did what I was told. Went to school and got a good job and did my best to help people. Straight and narrow, always. And where did it get me?” Her voice broke in several parts. 

A tear, perhaps an empathetic tear, clung to Hannibal’s lower lashes. “From our first meeting I knew you were special. I saw someone who wanted more from life and would do anything to achieve it, someone who had been tireless in her courses and her work. And I thought, what a waste of a mind.”

Her brows wrinkled as she thought. “Do you think you’re saving me from myself?”

“You don’t need saving, but we could all benefit from a different perspective.”

“A different perspective,” she repeated. Her shoulders rose high as she breathed. “Do you ever feel guilty about the things you’ve done?”

“Guilt is a useless emotion.”

“You feel no guilt over Abigail? Be honest with me.”

He turned away from her. “Admittedly, that is an act I wish I could take back. I acted without caution.”

“You acted on pure emotion.”

“Yes.”

When he went to face her again, she was standing to face him, one hand over her belly.

“If I suspect that you will, at any point in this child’s life, treat her like a pawn rather than protect her as your own, I will kill her, even if it kills me. I would rather be dead than put another human in your hands to toy with.” Her voice was low, gritty, and fierce. 

When Hannibal looked into her eyes, he saw the blues burning, the hottest part of a flame. He had not been scared of much in his five decades on Earth, but in this moment he was fearful, for he knew that Clarice was capable. 

“I can assure you, Clarice, that I will care for her.”

She glanced back over her shoulder to observe their reflections. She was quiet for a while.

“The minute I doubt you, this is over.”

"You are hoping I give you an undeniable reason so you can escape from how you feel."

His words cut. She relented. "I suppose. I meant what I said, though."

"I know."

She unfolded one of the sweaters, the richest black she had ever seen, and held it up against her frame. 

"Thank you, Hannibal."

***

Will read _Clear and Present Danger_ by lamplight. Hannibal rolled over, his head landing on Will’s chest. He often did this when he wanted to talk. When Will caught his eyes following Clancy’s words, books he often derided as “bravado and boats,” he knew something was wrong. 

“What are you thinking about?”

Hannibal cleared his throat. “Did I ever tell you about Aleksandras Milasius?”

The name provoked something deep and distant in Will, something he could not retrieve. Hannibal must have mentioned it long ago, perhaps in therapy.

“I forget.”

Hannibal shifted to better fit the contours of Will’s body. “He was the first person I seriously maimed. I didn’t kill him, but I was close.”

Will breathed in audibly. The prospect of hearing the tale of the Chesapeake Ripper’s first taste tugged at an ingrained urge. For a second he was back at the Bureau hunting the Ripper rather than in bed with him. 

“What did you do to Aleksandras?”

“Did you ever read _A Clockwork Orange_ , Will?”

“Read? No. I’ve seen it.” 

“The novel can be a bit silly, a bit obvious. Regardless, Anthony Burgess was inspired by time he spent in the Soviet Union, during which he saw many gangs of stray young men. Being an orphan in Eastern Europe has never been unusual: war, dictatorship, alcoholism, road accidents...all commonplace, all reasons why children find themselves alone. And when children are alone, they cling to one another with ferocity, like a pack of wolves.”

Will was beginning to remember. “He bullied you.”

“Technically he never put a hand to anyone, but he had two sidekicks who were all too happy to show off for his approval. He was a cunning boy, that Aleksandras, and he loved making other people miserable. One day, he decided that Mischa deserved to be miserable. I remember every detail: the gray, gathered clouds, the light drops of rain, the smell of grease smoke from the orphanage kitchen. Even at the time I saw it in slow motion and could not intervene in time. The three of them descended on Mischa, and his two thugs outstretched their arms into a forceful shove. She went down face first into the mud, ruining her favorite purple dress. They laughed and laughed.”

“Shit. What did you do?”

“I waited. I tended to Mischa and did my best to wash her dress, to no true avail. Then I decided to get revenge on Aleksandras. Without him the other two would be nothing. I had to get him alone, however, as I was still quite scrawny and would not have a prayer against his muscle. So I waited and waited. I took note of his patterns. And one night, nearly two weeks later, I caught him outside the bathroom, and using an ancient hunting knife my father gave me, I cut his cheeks into a permanent grin.” 

Will closed his book and placed it on his nightstand. “I take it he never touched Mischa again.”

“Will, he never spoke a word again.” An expression came over his face, a strange place between satisfaction and mourning.

Will pushed Hannibal’s bangs away from his brow. “Why are you thinking about him?”

“There is much reflection to be done…” His voice trailed off into silence. Will ran his fingers across his chest. Hannibal inhaled before speaking again. “My life has not been without consequences, consequences I have, for the most part, accepted. But in moments of weakness I think about what could have been, the ease of being normal.”

Will thought for a moment, then leaned in to place his lips against Hannibal’s ear. “You are the one who taught me about self-acceptance. God never feels impotent, and neither should you.” 

Hannibal felt emboldened, as he often did in Will’s presence. Soothed by Will’s understanding, he drifted to sleep, where pieces of his nights pining for Will in his Baltimore office came back to him. Those memories were sweet: their confessions, their first caress, their all-consuming desire for one another. He cherished them and always kept them at the front of his mind, his first tastes of love.

Will stayed awake for a while longer, observing the wedding band on his hand. It was thick gray Tungsten, scratch-resistant for his working days. When he had a plain gold band he left it at home, but found he did not feel whole without it. Knowing that he and Hannibal _belonged_ to one another brought him a great sense of pleasure.

He knew Clarice had Hannibal feeling paternal, and he knew Clarice knew that. He would have to be the solid one. Hannibal was in love with his vision of family, and that had not ended well in the past.

He continued to run his fingers through Hannibal's hair as he slept. He would not let anyone take this from him.


	27. An Interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are still reading this, I can't thank you enough.

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

_April 2020_

Catherine Wu walked through the front door of the Bloom-Verger estate, bringing with her the scent of roses and her crew. She was a stunning woman: slim, tan, with a sleek black bob and impeccable skin. 

Clarice had a lot of respect for Wu. When the interview requests came flooding in, hers was the only one Clarice even considered. Wu had covered crime stories for Vanity Fair and other outlets for several years. She treated her stories with long forgotten journalistic integrity: she avoided sensationalism and wrote extremely well, and was fair. After debating with herself for several days, Clarice, broke and dependent on Alana and Margot, agreed to meet with Wu for a handsome amount of money.

And a stipulation that she had final approval over the article and video. The editors balked on this, but eventually decided that Lecter material was still profitable enough to risk it.

Wu wore a pale yellow dress that was pretty without being overly cheerful. She shook Alana’s and Margot’s hands first before taking Clarice’s in a gentle clasp. “Such a pleasure to meet you. I cannot thank you enough for wanting to meet me.” In the living room behind them, seats and lights were being arranged.

In a blur a young woman, younger than Clarice, ushered her aside and began touching up the makeup Margot had applied on her earlier. She ran another coat of mascara over Clarice’s lashes and patted powder on her forehead and nose before returning her back to Wu. 

Earlier in the morning, Clarice had been immobilized by panic. She had tried to bully herself out of it, called herself weak, but she could feel nothing other than numb. Margot had to assist her in dressing. She wore one of Margot’s Armani suits with a pair of pumps to hide the fact that the pants were too long for her. Now, sitting in front of Catherine Wu of Vanity Fair, she was acutely aware of the length of her legs.

The lights were already oppressively hot. Clarice crossed and uncrossed her legs multiple times.

Wu held her hands, delicately laced, in her lap. She looked into one of the cameras as she explained who Clarice was and why they were having this conversation. Margot and Alana waited in the kitchen, within earshot of the interview.

“Clarice, what compelled you to go to South America?”

Now Clarice was aware of all the eyes on her, waiting. Suddenly she was in her Master’s program again, walking through a jail pod for the first time, fifty pairs of eyes staring her down.

“Though I wasn’t officially assigned to it, I was passionate about the Lecter case. I wanted to catch him very badly. My research pointed to a few cities in South America. My time at the Bureau came to an end somewhat abruptly, and I had never been abroad before, so I decided to give it a shot.”

“Some people find it hard to believe someone would do that. I’ve read comments questioning your mental health.”

Clarice was prepared for questions like this. They were what made Wu such an excellent reporter. Still, it stung.

“That’s fine by me. I question it too sometimes.”

Satisfied, Wu smiled and moved on. She summarized Clarice’s recent life: she had been in Lecter’s possession for 14 months, escaped from her place of captivity and was found confused and wounded in a public park in Sao Paulo. She confirmed the details with Clarice, who emphasized those were the details as she could remember them.

“On that note, you were found with amobarbital in your system. From what you have described, your situation seems similar to that of Miriam Lass.”

“It worked for him once, and it worked for him again.”

Wu leaned forward with gentleness and intent. “During your hospital stay, you denied a sexual assault exam multiple times. Why?”

Clarice put on her best tearful face. “Because if I had...if he had...I couldn’t live with the answer.”

Wu nodded sympathetically. “And you saw Will Graham?”

“I believe I saw him a few times, yes.”

“Was he held captive with you?”

“I don’t think so. He seemed cooperative.”

Wu leaned forward again. Clarice noticed she did this before raising a difficult point. “His wife vehemently disagrees. She insists there is no possible way Will is with Hannibal, if either of them are alive at all.”

Clarice had seen the negative press. The moment the words “I was held captive by Hannibal Lecter” escaped her lips in the presence of a nurse, there were endless stories and endless comments doubting her. Accusations of hunger for fame and notoriety, accusations of insanity. The tabloid favorite was that she, Hannibal, and Will had been in some sort of murderous, highly sexual threesome and she was framing them to cover her own misdeeds.

The tabloid version, of course, was closest to the truth.

She sighed and looked to the camera, trying her damndest to exude authenticity. “As you know, I was heavily sedated. It’s possible I hallucinated several parts of what I saw, or all of it.” Shrugging, she slipped her fingers under her sleeve to feel the ridges of her scar, where Hannibal had left the impression of his teeth. She did this every so often, when the past as she knew it and the past she created started to blur.

She hated herself for dragging Alana and Margot into this. They had their own skeletons in the closet, some just as obscured and grave as her own, and it pained her that they should take on more.

At times, when she watched Morgan for them and witnessed his meltdowns, she wondered if them knowing she had a child had made all the difference. Two fresh lives born into the darkness that touched them all. One Verger, one Lecter, related in origin if not by blood.

The memory of Simonetta with her narrow Lecter eyes and soft, pink skin turned over and over in her mind. How desperate she had been not to love her. How desperate she had been not to love any of them.

“Would you like to see Hannibal Lecter face the death penalty?”

Clarice rose her head at the sound of Wu’s voice. “I would like to forget Hannibal Lecter exists.” That was, mostly, true.

Catherine Wu read a line she had clearly prepared for the camera: 

“Clarice Starling, whether one believes you or not, there is no doubt your will is commendable, and your story will capture our imagination for years to come.”


	28. Wolf Like Me

_ “Charge me your day rate _

_ I'll turn you out in kind _

_ When the moon is round and full _

_ Gonna teach you tricks that'll blow your mind _

_ Mongrel mind _

_ Baby doll, I recognize _

_ You're a hideous thing inside”--”Wolf Like Me,” TV On the Radio _

 

A deep, cramping pain hit Clarice in her lower abdomen when she went to stand.  She clutched her prominent rounded belly as she sat back down. Another cramp followed, then another.  She could not even reposition herself before the pain knocked her down.

She knew what was happening, logically.  It was the time. But logic could not prepare her for what it felt like.

And even then, this didn’t feel...right, or natural.  The crests of the pain waves were too close together; in fact, there was no distance between them at all.  

“ _ Hannibal. _ ”

Her bedroom door opened with urgency.  Hannibal stood in the doorway and froze.  He had frozen only once before when the Russian man, with blood trickling down his chin, had asked him all those years ago, _“Do you like girls?”_

“Hannibal!”

He looked at Clarice, her eyes narrow with pain and cheeks flushed brightly.  His medical training took over and he ran to her and took her hand. “When did the contractions start?”

She exhaled through pursed lips.  “Like three minutes ago.”

“Can you stand?”

“Not without help.”  Each word was spoken through clenched teeth.  Clarice was not the type to wear her pain, and if he could see how much she was struggling, he knew the reality must be more severe.

“I believe this is precipitous labor.  We have to go to the hospital immediately.”

Clarice wasn’t ready.  She wasn’t ready to see the girl Hannibal and Will had named Simonetta, to have unknowing people call her a mother.  Most of all, she wasn’t ready to decide what to do next.

But the baby, in true Lecter fashion, had no tolerance for others’ wishes.  She stirred, ready to conquer the world.

Hannibal placed his hand under her arm.  There was, unless she was imagining it, the faintest shudder of fear in his touch.  “Clarice, we must go.”

***

In the first rushed hour, Clarice had to remember her fake name and birthday through the haze of adrenaline and pain medication.  She repeated the same information until the responses became robotic.

Hannibal appeared somewhat flustered, more so than her.  His sleeves were unevenly rolled up, a stray silver bang stuck out away from the others.  Whether that was part of his concerned family friend facade, she couldn’t be sure.  

Will arrived before she went into delivery.   _ The father is here _ , she heard the staff say excitedly.  Now she and Will, the elated parents, could meet the product of their love.

The baby was not hers.  Will and Hannibal had merely used her, rented her.  Yet, when a nurse assisted Will in putting on the appropriate protective gear, Clarice wanted to scream out for him to leave.  

She decided against it.  What did it matter if Will saw her body, when he knew so much already.

Three arduous, bloody, and painful hours later, Simonetta Petrov Wilkinson was born.  When Clarice heard the first cry, she cried too. She was so tired, and she knew she would never not be tired again.  

The nurses couldn’t wait to place the screaming baby in her arms.   _ She looks just like you! _

She didn’t.  She was tiny, raw, and pink, with a tuft of wispy blonde hair and small eyes yet to open.  If she looked like anyone, she looked like Hannibal.

Will put his finger in the baby’s tight little fist.  He must have noticed the same features.

“Oh no.  She’s his.”

The comment was only loud enough for Clarice to hear.

***

Clarice had lost a lot of blood, as was characteristic of such a quick labor, and laid in bed hooked up to an IV.  Resuscitative fluids and medication entered her veins to rehydrate her and tighten her uterus, preventing further bleeding.

Hannibal and Will stood over the crib and watched every wiggle and nostril flare.  The sight never failed to get raised eyebrows from the staff, who were assured that Hannibal was a _ very _ close friend and was not at all being intrusive.  

The staff also did not fail to notice that Clarice was less than thrilled with her situation.  Whenever she did not provide an enthused enough answer to a question, Hannibal surreptitiously poked or pinched her.  She ignored the corrections and received a screening for postpartum depression, which she did lie her way through.

Hannibal and Will took care of tracking Simonetta’s feedings and diaperings.  The lactation consultant had been very patient with Clarice, who fought through the whole lesson.  She wanted to grab the sweet, soft-spoken woman by the shoulders and shake her.  _ I am not her mother!  I don’t need to know this!   _

In the night, not even the physical exhaustion and pain medication could silence the lambs.  Clarice awoke in a cold sweat, her abdominal muscles stiff with overuse. Simonetta, the child of Hannibal Lecter she had helped bring into the world, slept in the crib next to her.

***

Three days later, it was Hannibal’s turn to feed Simonetta.  Overall she had been a content baby, but when she was hungry or soiled, there was no mightier sound than her cry.  It reminded him of the sound Mischa would make when she was infant, which woke him each and every time as a child.

He carried her into the kitchen and was surprised to see Clarice curled up under a lamp in the living room.  She had her palm around a glass of wine.

Once the bottle was ready, Hannibal decided to feed her in the chair directly in front of Clarice’ seat.  “You shouldn’t be--”

She raised a hand.  “Nine months, Hannibal.  Nine months.”

Hannibal shrugged and looked at Simonetta.  “I suppose you have given us enough breast milk stores for now.”

“I’m leaving.”

The phrase lingered in Hannibal’s ears, and he was not sure he had heard it correctly.  He lifted his gaze to meet hers.

“This wasn’t the outcome you intended, but it’s the only one I can live with.  And you said you would let me go.”

Hannibal gave a fractional nod.  “And I will. What you think you have to go back to, I don’t know.”

“I have nothing,” she bristled, “My apartment is long gone.  I have just enough money for a couple of months of unemployment, and a year long gap on my resume.”  

“But you will have your  _ integrity _ .”  The word slithered out of Hannibal’s mouth, drenched in irony.  

Clarice stood at that, as he knew she would and she knew she would.  “I lack whatever you and Will have that keep you doing this.”

“Neither of us have killed in some time.”  He watched Simonetta continue to chug her way through the milk bottle.

“You will, though.  You will and you will hide the body and when it’s convenient or fun you will do it again.”  She hated it, seeing Hannibal cradle this baby, feeding her with the very hands that ripped lungs out of still breathing people.

She hated it because it was a duality she could not live with.  

When the bottle was empty, he set it on the table and put Simonetta against his chest.  He thumped against her back until she burped. He smiled and looked at Clarice. “You haven’t even held her yet.”

She tied her hair back.  “You can be so transparent.  She’s an extension of  _ you _ , Hannibal, and that’s not going to convince me to stay.”  

He allowed disappointment to appear in his eyes.  “Your only family is here.”

“ _ Don’t _ .”  The word and the look that accompanied it were so hard that Hannibal knew Clarice was capable of killing him.

He smiled broadly, his pointed canines catching the lamplight.  “Very well. You cannot teach the wolf to be a sheep. Likewise, if the wolf in sheep’s clothing truly believes it is a sheep, there is not much you can teach it, either.”

Clarice wrapped her fingers around the wine bottle’s neck and took it with her.  She kept her eyes on Hannibal as she left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only two chapters planned after this so I'm closing in! Thank you all for reading and sticking by it. It has been a true labor of love; I have felt less than inspired at times but I never stopped thinking about it. Knowing how much some of you love and look forward to updates has truly kept me going.


	29. Sao Paulo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: needles, blood, drugs, other injury

Raindrops dotted the car’s windshield.  Clarice rested her head against the passenger side window, appreciating the rain’s cool against her skin.

Sao Paulo was a pulsing, dizzying city of combinations and contradictions.  It was a place where Hannibal Lecter could satisfy his sensualist needs, all the while ignoring the pang of letting go of Clarice.  

And it was 30 hours away from where he and Will had made their home.  Far enough away, he hoped, to throw investigators off their trail.

Because he knew Clarice would not be quiet.

Clarice chewed on her lips.  She had fully recovered from childbirth, but her body would never be familiar to her again.  The skin on her stomach was soft, her breasts heavy. She felt  _ womanly _ , and the word felt foreign to her and made her a little sick.    

_ “I guess you can donate my clothes.  It’s not like I need them.” _

_ Hannibal nodded, cradling Simonetta.  Clarice realized she had only seen Will hold her a few times.  It seemed like Hannibal never did anything without Simonetta in one arm. _

_ “We will do so.  Finish packing any food you desire to bring.  I want to stop as little as possible.” _

_ When Hannibal walked out of view, Will gave her a sharp, anxious look.  She smiled at him slightly. “I thought you would be relieved to see me go.” _

_ “I’m terrified.”  He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  “We both know you have no intention of keeping this a secret.” _

_ She watched him shift under her gaze for a while before speaking.  “I need the money, you know that. I have squat waiting for me. What am I supposed to do after being missing for 14 months?  Just get a job at a fucking gas station? I’m not doing that, and neither would you.” _

_ He put his glasses back on with exasperation.  “God, you could just stay here. It is far more reasonable.” _

_ "I can’t do that.”  She snapped. “I wish I were more like you, but I still have a conscience.  Unfortunately.” _

_ He raised his hands, yielding.  “Whatever, Clarice. Just...whatever.” _

_ She had come to know that constrained, burning anger well.  “You let me go, I let you go. A deal is a deal. I haven’t forgotten.” _

_ Will pushed the dark curls away from his face.  “I hope not.” _

They pulled up to an abandoned home Hannibal had staked out earlier in the day.  It was in a slum near the outer part of the city. The rain picked up as they went from the car to the door.

The house had clearly been ransacked a while ago.  All the windows were broken, all remaining furniture mouse-bitten and musty.  The walls were covered in graffiti. They had to kick old needles away from the space where they would work.

Exposed to the elements and under-insulated, the house was frigid.  Clarice hugged her denim jacket around herself tightly.

“Soon the cold will not bother you,” Hannibal told her, in a tone she could not quite pinpoint.

Hannibal opened the briefcase he had brought with him, exposing gloves and vials, syringes and needles.  He put on the gloves and drew up a transparent liquid from a vial using a needle and syringe. He pushed and pulled until the liquid met a black marker on the syringe to his satisfaction.

“I’ve been thinking.  It should probably look like I was restrained.”

He set down the syringe.  “You should remove your jackets and shoes.”

She nodded in agreement and began doing so while he frowned at the contents in the briefcase.  He removed a stack of gauze and rolled it into a cylindrical shape.

“Put this in your mouth and bite.  Hard.”

Clarice did not need to be told twice.  Wedging the tube between her jaws, she extended her wrists to Hannibal limply.  He took one and simultaneously pulled and jerked it downwards with all his strength.  It separated from her forearm with a sickening pop.  She cried out, her teeth digging into the gauze.  He did it to the other. Clarice’s hands dangled, unmoveable.

He wrapped her upper arm in a tourniquet and ran his fingertip down her forearm.  When he found a rising vein, he washed the area with an alcohol wipe. He then took the needle and syringe in his other hand and slid the needle’s tip into her bluish blood vessel.

He pushed the viscous barbiturate into her circulation.  The first time he saw her, it ended with him stabbing a sedative into her thigh.  With some amusement, he contemplated the cyclical nature of the universe to himself.  

The tranquilizing effects of the drug had already set in when Hannibal guided her to the car.  As he drove, she watched the street lights enlarge and blur into one another.

The nearby park had no current visitors, he was glad to see.  He stopped the car in its parking lot and turned to look at Clarice.

Her auburn hair had grown out in her stay with he and Will.  She had it tied up, though pieces fell into her face and out the back.  The weight she had gained somehow made her look smaller.  She looked cherubic, her cheeks and light eyes reminding him of the girl he lost so long ago.

He clasped the back of her head and pulled her to him.  Breathing in the scent that was uniquely hers (notes of coffee and vanilla), he blinked away tears.  He kissed her on the forehead lightly.

When he gently pushed her away, their eyes met.  Hers were half-lidded and glazed, but he saw tears there.  She mumbled, her tongue and lips unable to coordinate.

He pushed up a switch on the driver's side door to unlock hers, and leaned over to undo her seatbelt.

“I love you,” he said to her.  She nodded weakly.

He then opened the passenger door and shoved her out of the car.

 


	30. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: alcoholism, chronic illness, sexual trauma mention
> 
> Some dialogue and concepts taken from The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris.

_ “Admirer as I think I am _ __  
_ Of stars that do not give a damn, _ __  
_ I cannot, now I see them, say _ __  
_ I missed one terribly all day. _ __  
__  
_ Were all stars to disappear or die, _ __  
_ I should learn to look at an empty sky _ __  
_ And feel its total dark sublime, _ _  
_ ___Though this might take me a little time.”--W.H. Auden, The More Loving One_

_ Eight Years Later _

When Clarice stepped into the lobby from her airport gate, she struggled to find Will.

Her eyes caught a figure that had his heart-shaped face and curly hair, but seemed much older than Will could possibly be.  

“Clarice?”

The figure spoke and her heart sank.  His hair was a mottled black and gray and had grown long and wild.  He had lost so much weight that his belt, doing a poor job of holding up his pants, appeared to be cinched as tight as it could go.  Will would be fifty-two now, but this man must have been at least ten years older than that.

He approached her.  They stared at each other for a moment, not knowing what to do.  He then outstretched his arms awkwardly. She returned with an uncomfortable embrace.

“Oh, Will.  You look terrible.”

“I feel worse.”

They pulled themselves away.  Will patted her shoulder with his usual aloofness.  “You look great.”

“Academic life has its perks.”

He walked her to his car.  It was very late. As they drove on, it seemed they had the city to themselves.  The stereo was off. The quiet made her anxious, but she thought better of asking.

“So you’re married now.”  He did not look to her as he spoke.

“Yes.”

“Kids?”

“None of our own.  He’s a few years older and has a son from a previous marriage.  Good kid though. He just finished his freshman year at Johns Hopkins.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.  I had little to do with it.  It seems like they found me.”

Will seemed to lose interest in talking.  She looked out the window to watch the moonlight glint off the waves.  The moon was full, something her background told her was inauspicious.

They stopped at a white brick townhome in La Plata, a city just south of Buenos Aires.  At this point in her life, Clarice had been to Europe, and she could say the tall, curved buildings with pointed spires were European in nature.   

When they entered through the front door, Clarice spotted a girl curled up in large chair.  Her legs seemed too long for her body, and the small shorts she wore highlighted the disproportion.  Her hair, straight and the color of honey, cascaded over the chair’s arm. She had a tan that suggested she was out in the sun often.  

She looked up from her phone and made eye contact with Clarice.  That face. Clarice knew who the girl was, but she was not prepared for that face.  Cheekbones high and pointed as knives, eyes deep and wide like those of a big cat. It was Hannibal’s face.

“Sisi, this is Clarice.  Clarice, Sisi.”

They exchanged hellos but kept their eyes glued to one another.  There was something far away and hypnotic in Sisi’s greenish-brown eyes.  “Hello, Clarice.”

She had an Argentinian accent, with its sing-song meter, but her voice was as slow and measured as her father’s.   _ Hel-lo, Clar-ice. _

“Alright, you said hello.  Go to bed.”

“But Dad--”

Will sighed.  “Sisi, don’t argue with me.  It’s already way past your bedtime.”

“Papa said I could.”

Will took his glasses off.  “We’ve had this talk about you lying to me.  Go to bed or I’ll take the phone.”

The girl made her way out of the living room, but not before giving the adults a cold glance. 

“Excuse me,” Will muttered underneath his breath and went down the hallway to follow her.

When Will did not return for some time, Clarice decided to make herself comfortable.  She sat her bag down next to the couch she assumed would be her bed. She walked around the living area, recognizing some of Hannibal’s charcoals framed on the wall.  Under the television was a stack of video game consoles that she would not have recognized if not for her own stepson.

Did Sisi have friends come over to play these with her?  She must have. Clarice thought Hannibal must have loved that, actually.  The opportunity to impress the very impressionable with his cutesy hor d'oeuvres.  She tucked the thought away, not certain how to feel about it.

She opened her purse and removed a manilla folder.  She could only stay away from work for so long.

Spreading the photographs across their kitchen counter did nothing to give her a fresh perspective as she had hoped.  A part of her thought a change of scenery would make the pieces come together. They did no such thing.

_ Will, I wish you would hurry up.   _ She listened to the pitter-patter of feet and sounds of drawers closing.  Doors swishing open and clicking closed.

Then the familiar sound of dog nails against tile.  She smiled. When she came around the corner, Dulce seemed to do the same.  She wagged her tail and walked to Clarice with all the enthusiasm an old dog could muster.

Clarice dropped to her knees.  “Hi, girl! You remember me, don’t you?”

Dulce was stockier than she was before, and she had a couple fatty tumors on her joints that old dogs were wont to get.  Still, she was the same girl, and she planted long, sloppy licks on Clarice’s hands.

Clarice held back tears.  “I missed you, you know.”

Will entered the kitchen shortly after.  “Sorry about that. That girl is  _ stubborn _ .  Hannibal blames it on you, but I know it’s his fault.”  He gave her a faltering smile. “Want anything to drink?”

She curved her mouth in a slight smile.  “Bourbon,  _ por favor _ .”

“I don’t think we have any,” Will replied as he opened a cabinet door.  

“ _ Will Graham _ doesn’t have bourbon?”  She hoped her incredulousness came off as comedic rather than desperate, which it sort of was.   

He shrugged.  “I don’t drink much anymore.  Just wine with dinner.”

She returned her gaze to the photographs.  “Well, wine then. Thanks. Where’s Hannibal?”

“Sleeping.  He goes to bed early these days.”  He handed her a glass, and pretended not to notice how tremulous her hand was when she reached for it.

His eyes fell to the images she had splayed across his granite counter.  He registered the familiar, yet somehow unfamiliar, sight of bloodied bodies taken on a high resolution camera.  

“I thought you were a professor now,” he said gently.

She breathed out roughly through her nose.  “I am, but I still get consultation work. Somehow people think I have _ insight _ into the criminal mind.”

Will ignored the bite to her statement and watched her work.  She arranged and rearranged the photos and finished her glass of wine in a gulp.

“Clarice.”  She lifted her head to look at him.  She saw pity in those blue eyes, and anger stirred in her stomach in response.

“Don’t do this.  Don’t be another LEO drinking herself to death.”  

As though she had not heard him, Clarice poured herself another glass and picked up one of the photos, held it close to her face, and set it down.

“I’m tired.  Clean blankets and sheets are in the linen closet in the hall.  Goodnight.”

She made a small  _ mmm _ of acknowledgement in return, and it was all that Will got.  Her eyes hovered over the scene she had made.

***

In the morning she heard the sounds of footsteps and zippers, the jingle of a dog collar.  Hurried, hushed voices. Keys being picked up from the counter.

Her hangover prevented her from piecing all of these bits together at first, but soon the memory came in.  She was visiting Hannibal and Will. And her biological daughter.

When she lifted her head, the now stillness told her she was alone.  She called out for someone, but no one responded. She took her bag and went looking for the bathroom.

After brushing the stale red wine taste out of her mouth, she washed her face, the water as cold as she could make it.  The shiver did its part to wake her and she took out her makeup bag.

She was two years away from forty.  No one believed it, and her students always commented on how small and young she looked.  She had to wonder if people were polite or just not that observant. She had aged. Foundation now settled in her forehead lines, her lashes lost their fullness.  Every now and then she plucked a gray strand from her red hair.

Perhaps the aging was more apparent to her because she knew she had done much of it to herself.

When she went to the kitchen, she found her manilla folder restuffed with the crime scene photos.  There was a brief flash of annoyance before she remembered this was someone else’s home, and she had not been onto much to begin with.

After a breakfast of black coffee and a bagel with butter, she laid the photos out again.  Her attention was only diverted by the door creaking open.

Dulce went straight for her and nuzzled her thigh, tail wagging.  Will walked in behind her, carrying her harness. And behind him came Hannibal.

Clarice had prepared and prepared herself for this moment, and still it was not enough.  Hannibal was as regal as ever, his pointed, Slavic handsomeness intact. Yet his hair was all silver now, and he did not seem as intimidatingly tall.  He wore thin, silver-framed glasses on his nose.

He paused when he saw her.  “Clarice.”

“Hannibal.”  

They stared at each other for a moment, neither of them able to breathe much.  Will went to the pantry and poured Dulce a bowl of kibble. “I see you’re back at it.  I put them away this morning. We have an eight year old, you know.”

She broke her gaze to return to the photos.  “Yeah, sorry. I dozed off last night.”

Will looked at her skeptically before joining her.  “Tell us about him.”

Hannibal walked over, his gait on the stiff side.  When he arrived at the counter, he rested a palm on Clarice’s shoulder.  He noted that she didn’t flinch like she used to.

“I wish there was something to tell.  He’s given us nothing. He dumps the bodies up various rivers, so we’ve got them in Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky, West Virginia, and Georgia.  They all have these...patterns cut out of their skin. That’s it.”

Hannibal  _ tsk _ ed.  “Oh, I have never known you to give up, Clarice.  You are closer than you realize.”

“What do you mean?,” she asked, an embarrassed edge to her voice.

Will began moving the photographs around.  “What do the victims have in common?”

She shrugged.  “Young white females.  All serial killers target them.”

“ _ I _ didn’t,” Hannibal corrected, an affronted edge to his voice.

She bit her lower lip.  “I guess they’re pretty young.  The oldest was a sophomore in college.”

“What else?,” Will asked, a little impatiently.

“Tall.  Big.” She breathed out, shocked she had not seen it before.

“Out of curiosity, what do they call him in the breakrooms?”  Hannibal’s voice seemed to slither in her ear.

“Buffalo Bill,  because he ‘skins his humps.’”  The phrase came out in distaste.  A lot of things had driven her out of active law enforcement, not least of which was bullshit like that.

“And you know that is incorrect,” he replied.

She nodded.  “This just doesn’t have the  _ feel _ of a sexual crime.  There’s no semen, no sexual trauma.  No trauma at all really, aside from the gunshot wounds that killed them.  He removed the skin post-mortem. Some of their nails were short and bloody, but from clawing at something, not someone.  The only DNA under their nails was their own.”

Will singled out a photo and brought it to her attention.  “What purpose does the skin serve him?”

She narrowed her eyes at the large patch of skin removed from the victim’s left shoulder.  He had left behind subcutaneous tissue, muscle. “I don’t know, but I know that it’s very fine work.  Careful.”

“A bit too careful not to be of the upmost importance?”  Hannibal gave her shoulder a squeeze.

“He kills for the skin.  I know that. I just don’t know  _ why _ .”

“He  _ covets _ , Clarice.”  Hannibal’s breath against her skin made her shudder.  “And we covet, we begin by coveting what we see every day.”

For the first time, she recognized the pattern Will had made with the victims.  Left shoulder, right shoulder. Back, buttocks, and thighs. She dove into her pocket for her phone.  “Holy shit, he’s making clothes, like Ed  _ fucking _ Gein.  I need to make a call.”

Before she pressed the necessary numbers, Hannibal’s eyes were in front of her own.  She had not seen those maroon flecks in a long time. “Before you do that, promise me you will not let this distract you from your visit.”

She furrowed her brows before nodding.  “Okay, Hannibal. Promise.”

***

Simonetta’s arrival at home after school was announced by her running into the house and changing into her swimsuit.

The beach was a short walk from the townhome, and the little girl led the pack to the waterfront.

Dressed in jeans and t-shirts, Clarice and Hannibal laid out a blanket and sat with Dulce while Will and Simonetta took to the waves.

“You’re not going in?,” she asked, a Corona between her lips and her hand behind Dulce’s ears.

Hannibal shook his head.  “Swimming is Will’s passion.  This is his time with her.”

They watched Will and Sisi splash one another.  Sisi may have been the Chesapeake Ripper’s child, but she had that same happy squeal as other children.

Clarice shifted impatiently.  “Hannibal, why did Will ask me to come here?  I mean, you write to me every few months for years, then nothing for seven months.  I thought…” She trailed off before rubbing her eyes. “I don’t know what I thought, but it freaked me out.  Then I get a letter from Will saying you need to see me. Why?”

Hannibal was quiet for a while.  He then lifted his hand off the ground and held it in the air.  Clarice watched as it quivered back and forth.

“Parkinson’s?,” she asked, her voice soft.

He nodded.  “It began with the tremor.  It was negligible at first, then it began affecting tasks, such as cooking and writing.”

“Ah,” she sounded in realization.

“Now I cannot walk as well as I used to, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

She had wondered if Hannibal was ill.  Little else could make Will look as exhausted as he did.

Will was tightening the goggles around Sisi’s face.

“I suppose you think I’m getting ‘what I deserve.’”  Hannibal smiled sardonically.

She took a sip of beer.  “No, I don’t.” It was the truth.  “If anything were to happen to you both…”

Hannibal anticipated her question.  “Sisi would go to my cousin Chiyoh, and in the unlikely event--very unlikely, as I’m certain Chiyoh will live forever--that she passes, we think Sisi should go to you.”

Clarice’s mouth curled up a bit.  “I’ll find a way to explain it to my husband.”

They both sat in silence for a while, watching the sky grow more covered with light gray clouds.

“I did not ask you here to discuss guardianship, Clarice.”

She glanced over her shoulder to look at him.  The wind picked up his silver bangs delicately.  “Why then?”

He kept his eyes on his husband and daughter.  “There will come a time, maybe in five years, maybe in twenty, when I will lose control of my mind.  I will not be able to speak as I can now. I will become forgetful and fearful. I will hallucinate. When that time comes, Clarice, I want you to kill me.”

A gull came to inspect their blanket for crumbs.  Dulce chased it off with a resolute bark.

“Why me?  Why not Will?”  The wind knocked over her empty bottle.

“Because Will does not have your...conviction.”  The word came out of Hannibal’s mouth, certain and heavy, and Clarice knew he was right.

Another squeal as a wave crashed into Sisi, knocking her over.  Will picked her up and swung her around.

“Of course, Hannibal.  When you’re ready, I’ll kill you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! I really don't know what to say, I'm so overwhelmed with the love this fic has received. I had this story in me for such a long time. I wrote this throughout nursing school (which is why the updates slowed down at points), and this story and the attention and positivity truly carried me through. I will miss writing this, but I'm happy to send it out into the world as a complete piece. Thank you all SO SO much for your feedback and support.


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